


On My Own

by UMdancer98



Category: Batman (1966), Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Alfred doesn't get enough credit, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dick Grayson is awesome, Different take on the origin of Robin, Gen, Joker is mean, So is Robin, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-06-12 21:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15348774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UMdancer98/pseuds/UMdancer98
Summary: When tragedy strikes, the way you react could alter the course of your life, maybe even define who you are. My name is Richard John Grayson, and this is my story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Parts of this story will be told in first person but the majority of it is in third person. If there are some parts that don't really make sense in this first chapter, it's because of the point of view. The dots will all be connected in the second chapter. :)
> 
> Also, some of the words in this chapter and the subsequent first person sections may seem too advanced for a young child to be using. However, we all know that Dick/Robin is an extremely intelligent boy with an extensive vocabulary. ;)
> 
> Batman and Robin are loosely based off the 1960s TV show but go back and forth between genres (comics, cartoons, etc.) and are sometimes completely out of any characterization. I write it the way it enters my head, which is not always "historically" accurate. Italics usually represent thoughts to oneself but are sometimes used to add emphasis. In this first chapter, however, emphasis is added by underlining and bolding. Thanks for reading!

** Chapter 1: **

Saturday, March 20

            Today is my eleventh birthday.  I found this ratty notebook in a dumpster yesterday so…happy birthday to me, I guess.   I’m tired of keeping the pain inside; maybe writing everything down will help me deal with it better.  And it’s not like anybody will ever read it so there’s no chance of discovery. 

            My name is Richard John Grayson, preferably Dick Grayson, although I haven’t used it for a while.  You’ll find out why later.  I have to start at the beginning, the night of March 26 of last year.  I remember the details so well that it seems like it happened yesterday.  It was supposed to be the best night of my life.  It started out that way, but quickly turned into the worst night instead.  Here is my story:

            “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice echoed around the big circus tent, “we have a special treat tonight!  You are about to witness the acrobatic skills of an amazing duo of aerialists – The Flying Graysons!  And, making his debut, the youngest member of this artistic family: ten-year-old Richard Grayson!  He will unveil his signature move, the quadruple backflip, which has never successfully been performed by any aerialist in the world!”

            I stepped in front of my mother on the trapeze platform high above the crowd.  I knew my grin was as wide as the empty space between the two platforms as I raised my right arm over my head.  The audience burst into raucous applause and I waved before returning to my place behind my mother.

            “This is just like rehearsal,” she whispered, glancing down at me reassuringly.  I was both excited and nervous and I knew both feelings were clearly expressed on my face.

            “Just imagine all your friends in the crowd, cheering you on as you practice.”

            Nodding my head, I flashed her a quick grin and took a deep breath.  I was ready to prove myself and I knew I could do this.

            My parents began the routine, performing as flawlessly and gracefully as they always did.  It was almost my turn and I shook the nerves out of my arms.

            Eight.  Nine.  Ten _._

            I remember counting the swings; the timing had to be perfect.  The number ten meant jump so I did.  My first move was a simple double front flip.  I curled my body in, rotated twice and reached for Mom’s strong hands.  She easily caught me and I heard a quiet murmur.  “Perfect” was the word and it was whispered with a proud smile.

            Grinning at the praise, I let go.  This was it, the move that had never been performed by any other aerialist in the world.  Ever.  I was scared – no, that’s not the right word.  I guess I was a little nervous, but I had done it hundreds of times in practices and dress rehearsals.  Those thoughts gave me confidence and the previous feeling fled.  Tucking into a small ball, I executed a smooth quadruple backflip, completely trusting my father to grab my wrists.  I think it was the best one I had ever done.  At least, it felt that way.  I never saw it so I’ll never really know for sure.

            Anyway, the second catch was performed as perfectly as the first and we swung up to Dad’s platform.  The landing was solid, my father patted me proudly on the back and we turned to the audience.  The cheering increased in volume as we waved to the adoring crowd.

            “And now,” the announcer’s commanding voice brought the eyes of everyone to the ground, “John and Mary Grayson will perform their signature finale...” he paused dramatically before adding the words, “…without the safety of a net!”

            The audience gasped, I gave dad a quick hug and he smiled down at me.  It was the last time I would ever see his smile.  I never realized how much I loved the crinkles under his eyes or the dimple on his left cheek until they were gone forever.

            It’s so hard, knowing that I won’t ever see the fun-loving sparkle in his blue-gray eyes again.  Knowing that I’ll never hear the tinkling sound of my mom’s laugh or listen to the stories she created for me at bedtime.

            “Good luck,” I whispered, although I knew they didn’t need it.  They were the epitome of aerialistic perfection and I was so proud to be their son.

            As I watched my parents begin their flight, I noticed a man practically jumping on people as he moved toward the stairs.  I shook my head; some people could be so rude.  Everyone was standing now, cheering loudly as my mom spun from her trapeze into my dad’s arms and immediately flipped back to her bar.  The tricks, for them, were simple but they made everything look so beautiful.  Nobody could tear their eyes away from my parents, not even me and I had seen the routine hundreds of times!

            Then it happened.  There was a loud noise, I had no idea what it was, and suddenly Mom and Dad were falling instead of flying.  Only one wire held each bar but that was impossible.  Dad always checked everything before a performance and we wouldn’t have even set foot on the ladder if something wasn’t right.  And that had never happened.

            They fell face up, hands stretching toward me and fear in their eyes.  There was nothing I could do, I probably knew that in the back of my mind, but I found myself lying on my stomach and reaching for them anyway.  My arms were too short, I realized that right away, and I stopped trying.  I quit on my parents!

            That was something unacceptable.  Even if I was afraid while learning a new trick, they always made me keep trying.  I had never quit but I did this time.  Of all the stupidest times to quit, I had chosen this one.  I was such an idiot; I should have jumped for a bar and flown down.  I could have saved at least one.  Or so I thought at the time.  Looking back, I realize that if I had jumped my body would have ended up on the ground right next to….

            But maybe it would have been better that way.  I wouldn’t have to carry around this constant pain and heavy ache in my heart.  We would be together; I would have someone who loved me.  Instead it’s just me, alone in this awful place called Gotham City.

            I stayed on my stomach for a brief moment, just staring down in shock.  But I had to get to them so I scrambled down the ladder, jumped off the last two rungs and sprinted toward the center of the ring.  Several people reached out to grab me, to keep me away from the horrible scene.  But I was strong and fast and easily twisted away from the myriad of hands stretching in my direction.

            “MAMA, DADDY!”  I was screaming for them even though I already knew they wouldn’t answer.  I slipped on something and fell onto my stomach.  As I skimmed across the slick, red surface, I realized that I was sliding in a pool of blood that was quickly spreading away from the bodies of my parents.  It was too much to process and I closed my eyes.  Then my head hit something soft and I opened my eyes.  The motionless arm of my father had stopped my skid.  Motionless…limp…lifeless…dead.  My dad was dead.

            “NO, NO, NO!”  I heard myself screaming again.  This was some kind of sick joke.  They were breathing, they had to be breathing.  Pushing myself up to my knees, I threw my trembling body across my dad’s torso.  Sharp edges, broken bones, lifeless eyes, torn skin and blood.  So much blood, everywhere around me.

            “No, please,” I whispered.  I was sobbing, uncontrollably, and tears were streaming down my face.  The red blood underneath us turned pink as the liquid from my eyes mingled with the fluid still flowing out of my dad’s body.

            Mr. Haly’s strong arms were suddenly around my waist, pulling me away from the bodies and into a firm hug.  I couldn’t leave them, I had to be with them, they weren’t dead, I needed them!  I struggled against the circus owner’s strong arms but he refused to release his tight hold.  Everything was blurry and I gave up, curling in to his body.  My hands tightened into fists as I grabbed Mr. Haly’s coarse shirt and sobbed into his chest.

            There was a quiet shuffling sound, which I immediately recognized as hundreds of shoes moving around on a dirt-covered cement floor.  Glancing up, I watched the crowd begin to leave as other members of the circus ushered them toward the exits. 

            I finally realized the truth: my parents were **dead**!  And nobody had tried to stop it!  Everyone just stood there, calmly watching my parents crash to the ground.  It was like they didn’t even care!  But I did…a lot.

            Something snapped in my mind and I quickly twisted out of Mr. Haly’s arms.  Effortlessly landing on my feet, I paused to stare at the unfamiliar face of a man lying on the ground.  There was some sort of weapon on the floor a few feet away and I instantly connected the dots.  This was the person who had ripped my life apart in a matter of seconds.  It was a face I will never forget, not even a million years from now.  The crooked nose, the light scar that ran from his forehead to his left ear and the cruel, green eyes that were slowing opening and beginning to blink rapidly.

            Then I ran.  Samson’s large body immediately loomed in front of me but I wasn’t going to stop running.  The strongman’s muscular arms reached for me but I easily ducked low and dodged away from the grasping hands.

            Wilhelm the lion tamer was next to enter my vision, coming from my right.  Unlike Samson, this man was quick – he had to be in order to play with the lions – so I veered left and threw myself into a round-off followed by three, rapid-fire back handsprings.  I angled my tumbling, creating a half-circle that Wilhelm wasn’t expecting, and he got turned around.  I’m pretty sure that by the time he found me, I was almost to the exit.

            Joey, the security guard, was ahead; he was strong but slow.  I raced past both him and Harry the Clown.  The second man’s hand reached for my shoulder but only grabbed air.  There were so many emotions flowing through my body and I was panicking.  I’m fast and athletic and now I was scared, angry, confused and – most of all – heartbroken.

            Then it was fury that took over.  Why?  Why was it only my parents that died?  They, we, were the headline act of the show!  If they had to die, it was only fair that everyone else die, too…right?  I was furious with every single other member of the circus, although deep down I think I knew they were blameless.  But it wasn’t fair: they were alive and my **whole** **world** had just crashed to the ground.

            The large hole that was the back exit loomed in front of me and I increased my speed.  People were yelling my name but I ignored them all.  The stars of The Flying Graysons were gone and I couldn’t fly by myself.  Therefore, I was no longer part of a circus act.  I had nothing left, except the costume that was now stained with my **parents’** blood.

            Footsteps; I could hear loud, pounding footsteps all around me.  I knew my bare feet would leave prints for them to follow so I dove out of the tent, over the patch of dirt that I knew was back there, and easily rolled up to my feet.  I landed in grass and realized that a trail in the grass would be much more difficult to follow in the dark.

            I was quickly running out of energy but there was no way I was going to stop.  If I stopped, they would find me and for some reason I decided that being found was unacceptable.  That thought gave me extra fuel and I began sprinting, straight for the small forest of thick trees that formed a half-circle behind the colorful tents of the circus.  But I wouldn’t get away if I kept running – I’m definitely not a long distance runner.  So, I scampered into the darkness and climbed the first sturdy tree I found.  Like I said, I’m fast and athletic.  I was in the top branches, completely hidden by large, green leaves, before the first person even arrived at the edge of the trees.

            “Dick, Richard, Son, Sweetie, Honey,” a plethora of voices were shouting my names and nicknames, searching for me in the darkness.  I was an active and, I admit, quite chatty ten-year-old but somehow I kept myself from responding; I didn’t even move.  I guess I could have been part of the tree, if not for the large, silent tears still streaming down my face.

            The voices faded away as the performers took their search farther into the forest.  But one man stopped and, in a deep voice that I didn’t recognize, quietly choked out an apology.

            “I’m so sorry, kiddo.  I chose the wrong path, I should have, I couldn’t do both.  I should have chosen…”

            The words trailed off into an indistinguishable mumble that was full of anguish.

            WHAT?!  I almost screamed the word out loud.  What was the choice this man had made and why was it the wrong one?  He couldn’t do both what?  Was he calling me kiddo?

            I didn’t understand why this man, someone I didn’t even know, would be apologizing for something that couldn’t be his fault.  The man with the green eyes was back in the tent, probably being held down by Mr. Haly.  Lots of policemen should have arrived by now and the man – no, the **murderer** – was most likely in handcuffs.  Besides, if he wasn’t, why would the guy who had just torn my life to shreds decide to come out and express regret?

            So, I remained quiet and sat motionless in the cover of darkness and leaves, allowing a black hole to take up residence in my heart.  It would never be whole again; I had nobody to fill it.  I was completely alone between two worlds: the one where I had grown up but was no longer useful – because how could a ten-year-old trapeze artist perform by himself? – and a new one that was cold, bitter and entirely foreign.

            I knew nothing about this place, this Gotham City, but here I was going to stay.  I would stay because my parents would be here, both in body and spirit, and I would stay because they would tell me to make the best of things.  I was done with Haly’s Circus; Gotham City was my new home and, for my parents, I would make the best of things.

* * *

            The darkness of the night gave way to the brilliant light of the morning sun.  I had been awake all night and I watched the sunrise with weary eyes.  I’m sure it was beautiful – I can imagine pinks, reds and oranges blending together and dancing in perfect harmony.  But my eyes only saw a pair of smiling faces superimposed over a bloody floor.  I stared absently at the leaves around me with that image refusing to leave my mind.

            The other members of the circus had called off the search in the early hours of the morning.  They had probably slept, at least a little, and would return to find their youngest member – former member, although they didn’t know that yet – soon.  I assumed they would decide that I couldn’t have gone far and would come back to them.  Isn’t that what any normal ten-year-old would do after such a traumatic experience: return to a familiar place?

            However, I wasn’t a “normal” ten-year-old.  I was a Flying Grayson and would never abandon my parents.  There had to be some place in Gotham City where I would be safe and able to begin my training. 

            Because that’s what I had decided to do.  I was going to learn how to fight back against the bad guys in this world.  Nobody should have to go through what I had just experienced and I vowed to do my best to keep it from happening again.  But first I had to train myself how to fight and become stronger.  I wouldn’t be useful against criminals if I was unprepared and weak.  Heroes fought back, I’d heard that from people in the circus, but I wasn’t going to be a hero.  I was just going to give other children what I would never have – the chance to grow up in a real family.  And I was going to do it on my own because who would allow a ten-year-old former aerialist to become a crime-fighter?

            I knew, however, that I needed a disguise.  I couldn’t just go around fighting people as Dick Grayson.  Anonymity would be best for both my safety and that of Haly’s Circus.  If any criminals discovered where I was from, they might go after my former friends.

            Glancing down at my red costume, which was much darker than it should be, I decided to alter it in order to become invisible.  The sparkling long pants would immediately be seen so they would have to be removed.  But that was okay because we all wore sheer tights underneath our green leotards.  I had nothing with which to clean the red tunic that covered my leotard and torso.  The blood of my dead parents would always remain across my chest, forever reminding me why I was doing what I was about to do.

            I needed a name – anonymity for safety.  But I had no immediate ideas.  What do crime-fighters who want to be invisible call themselves?  Ghost?  The Invisible Boy?  Nothing at all? 

**Robin**.

            I heard Mom’s voice in my head.  She had always called me her “little robin” and it would be another way to honor their memory.  I would never truly fly again but at least her little Robin would still exist.

            The only thing left was a place to stay.  But now voices were calling my name so I made myself as small as possible.  They would search today and give up again at night, I was positive about that.  The circus had planned to pull out tomorrow and everyone knew they had to stick to their tight schedule.  I would leave in the cover of darkness and find a new home.

            My stomach growled at me, I hadn’t eaten since yesterday at lunch, but I was exhausted and my eyes were begging to be allowed to close.  My usually strong body was drained both physically and emotionally so I, Richard John Grayson now Robin, settled into my cozy nest of branches, covered myself with more leaves and went to sleep.

* * *

            I woke up sweaty and hungry.  The sun was leaning west and I heard the familiar sounds of the circus being taken down and packed.  They were actually going to leave me here.  I thought that, maybe, I would be important enough for them to search for at least another day.

            But…isn’t this what I wanted?  I needed them to leave but a small ache in my chest made me realize that I also needed them to stay.  However, I was no longer useful to them; I wasn’t worth the time it would take to thoroughly search the surrounding area.  I was one-third of The Flying Graysons – the youngest, most inexperienced one who would never be able to pull off a trapeze performance alone.  Mom or Dad could, of that I was sure, but not me.  I had flown in front of a real audience exactly once and my part required both of my parents to catch me.

            My stomach growled loudly and I realized I needed supplies.  I would have to return to our…my…trailer that night before leaving.  There was food, clothing and a little bit of money – all necessary if I wanted to stay alive.

            Darkness came slowly.  I waited for the clattering of dishes to stop and the conversations to die down.  Then I waited for the tell-tale sounds of metal creaking and soft whispering that meant everyone was bedding down for the night.  Then I waited some more, just to be sure, and counted to one thousand.

            Everything was sore.  Climbing out of the tree was painful and my muscles were stiff from sitting and lying on branches for an entire night and day.  But I needed supplies and the circus was the only place to get them.

            I carefully and quietly left the safety of the forest.  Every small movement caught my attention and made me freeze in anticipation of discovery.  It was always the wind, nobody was awake, and I made it to my trailer with no trouble.  It was helpful that we had parked on the side closest to the forest.

            After softly climbing the steps, I opened the door and walked inside.  I half expected to see Mom and Dad asleep in their bed, or sitting up waiting for me to return.  Of course they weren’t, but there had been a tiny tinge of hope in my heart.

            A lion growled and I recognized the need for speed.  The biggest blanket was on their bed so I grabbed it and laid it out on the floor.  Everything I needed was piled in the middle – two sets of regular clothes, all the food, three bars of soap, and a large, clear bottle for water.  I tore off my bright pants and dropped them on my bed.  That almost did it; I almost decided to lie down, curl in a ball and cry.  Instead, I forced the thoughts away but allowed silent tears to slide down my cheeks and drip onto the floor.

            Money; that was the last thing I needed.  I went through the entire trailer, grabbing all the money I knew of and then searching every nook and cranny for more.  Anything would help, even if it was only a penny.  The change would fall out of my already full blanket so I slipped the pillowcase off my pillow and stuffed all the money in there.  It was a pretty good stash, my parents had been very thrifty, and I figured it would last for at least six months if I was careful.

            Tightly tying the pillowcase into a knot, I placed it on the large pile resting in the middle of the blanket.  I pulled the four corners together and tightly tied them, also.  I had learned all about knots from our resident magician and I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about them coming undone.  Taking one last glance around the room, I noticed a small pile of miscellaneous fabric that mom used to make quilts.  It was light and could be useful so I grabbed it and shoved it inside the small hole right beside the knot on top.

            I grabbed a pair of socks and my tennis shoes and quickly put them on.  Running around barefoot would be detrimental to my new career.  Finally I was ready.  The blanket was heavy but not enough to keep me from slinging it over my shoulder.  The weight nearly bent me in half but after a few adjustments I found the perfect spot for it to rest.

            I whispered a few words, I don’t remember the exact ones, but I know I was saying good-bye.  Good-bye to the circus, my friends, my trailer and my…my parents.  Someday I would search the cemeteries and find their graves.  Maybe when it hurt less, though I doubted that day would ever come.  But someday I would find them.

            The tears had stopped and I left the trailer.  I turned right and my gaze landed on the large poster advertising “The Flying Graysons – the most spectacular aerialists in the world!”  The blanket dropped off my shoulder and I fell to my knees.  I couldn’t stop it this time; quiet sobs wracked my body and I covered my face with my hands.  A small puddle of tears turned the dirt underneath me to mud but I didn’t care.

            A lion growled again, startling me out of my mourning.  I jumped to my feet and gently removed the poster from the side of the trailer.  Almost reverently, I rolled it up and carefully slid it into the top hole of the blanket.  The pack went over my shoulder again and I turned away from the only home I had ever known.  It was time to find a new home and time to make the best of things.  I could cry when I had a safe place to stay but right now I had to leave before I was discovered.

            I whispered a quick “I love you” as I trudged away into the small forest.  Gotham City was in the opposite direction but I had to wait for the circus to pull out before I could go that way.  Another night in the trees and then on to a new life.  I walked away without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who gave kudos! :)

** Chapter 2: **

**Haly’s Circus, on the western outskirts of Gotham City, one year ago:**

            The circus was the perfect distraction.  Batman had been chasing Joker all week and had finally captured him yesterday.  The hero needed a little break and Alfred had mentioned Haly’s Circus.  So, Bruce Wayne had decided to attend the last night of the performance.

            Everything had been impressive but Bruce was especially interested in the trapeze artists.  Aerialists, for some reason, fascinated him.  He grinned slightly; maybe Batman was jealous of their acrobatic abilities.

            The Flying Graysons began their routine and their performance was flawless, as it probably had been hundreds of times before this night.  They were fluid and graceful and made everything look easy.  It was amazing and Bruce couldn’t take his eyes off of them.  He realized that the boy was about to fly so the millionaire picked up his binoculars and studied him.  The child seemed very confident, especially for a ten-year-old making his debut.  He was grinning and Bruce could see him counting as his parents swung back and forth.

            There was an unusual movement on the far side of the large circus tent and Bruce shifted his binoculars in that direction.  He immediately identified the shine of bright lights glancing off the barrel of a gun and dropped the binoculars in shock.  How had someone been able to bring a _gun_ into the circus tent?!

            Jumping to his feet, Bruce rudely climbed over the fourteen people separating him from the stairs.  He was eight rows away from the circus floor and he sprinted down the flight of steps, hoping he could catch the owner of the gun before anything bad happened.

            But the man was already striding toward the center of the ring, The Flying Graysons were in the middle of their signature finale and all eyes were raised to the sky.  Nobody noticed the man who was now pointing the gun at the aerialists.  Nobody except Bruce, and he was still four rows away.  People were standing in awe, cheering enthusiastically and getting in his way.  He already knew what was going to happen and the sudden sound of gunfire confirmed it.

            The crowd screamed as bullets ripped through the wires connecting each trapeze to the rafters of the tent.  The two aerialists plummeted toward the ground with no chance to save themselves.

            Bruce was now on the circus floor and had a choice to make: attempt to save at least one parent or tackle the man who was turning the gun toward the audience.  Hundreds could die if he saved a parent but a young boy would become an orphan if he took out the gunman instead.

            A flash of the gun made the decision for him and Batman dove at the criminal.  The man fell to the ground and the Caped Crusader knocked him out with one punch.

            There was a sickening crunch and then complete silence.  Nobody wanted to see the mangled bodies but most couldn’t look away from the gruesome sight.  Then a grief-stricken wail came from high above them and everyone looked up.  A sobbing, ten-year-old aerialist began scrambling his way down a thirty foot ladder.

            Bruce shook his head in both grief and regret.  Batman should have gone for the mother or father.  But could he really risk hundreds of lives for one little boy?  The gun would have killed more people than the fall that had taken the lives of The Flying Graysons.

            The young child was sliding across the floor on his stomach, through the pool of blood surrounding his parents.  His head hit his father’s arm and the boy threw himself across the man.  His entire body was trembling and he was begging them to wake up.

            Memories flooded his mind and Bruce almost dropped to his knees in sympathetic sorrow.  Closing his eyes instead, he shut out the image of the child covered in the blood of his parents.  However, he could still hear the heartbroken wails of the young aerialist who was now an orphan. 

            “ _Dick, RICHARD_!”

            Several circus members were yelling the child’s name and Bruce opened his eyes.  They widened in shock when he saw the boy sprinting away from everyone.  Why was he running away from the people who cared for him and loved him?!

            The ten-year-old was fast and athletic.  He ducked away from a muscular man, flipped his way around a shorter man, dodged a clown and flew out the back exit.  Every single circus performer still in the tent began chasing after him but the trail was lost before it even began.  There were no irregular sights or sounds, not even any footprints in the dirt behind the tent.  The only living member of The Flying Graysons, the youngest one who had performed for both his first and last time, was gone.

            Bruce Wayne had, for some reason, followed the remaining members of the circus as they chased the young aerialist.  Actually, he knew the exact reason: it was partially his fault that the boy was now alone in the world and the man needed to make up for it.  How he would do that he had no idea.  But he had to find the kid first.  

            He stopped just inside the small forest as the others spread out to continue their search.  The ten-year-old boy – Richard? – was fast and probably well-hidden.  He was smart; Bruce had noticed an immense depth of intelligence in the boy’s grief-filled eyes.  If the now-orphan didn’t want to be found, he would go to a place where he wouldn’t be found.

            Leaning against a sturdy tree and dropping his head, Bruce softly apologized to the ground in front of him.  He wished the boy could hear him but was also grateful that he wasn’t there.

            “I’m so sorry, kiddo.  I chose the wrong path, I should have, I couldn’t do both.  I should have chosen…”

            The statement was both true and false.  It had been an impossible choice.  Bruce should have tried harder to catch the father, the closest parent.  Batman, however, had gone for the greater good – saving hundreds of lives instead of one. 

            Shaking his head, the man turned around and strode toward the limousine where his faithful butler, Alfred, would be waiting.  They would return to Wayne Manor, Bruce would become Batman and the Caped Crusader would talk to the man who had taken the two most important people out of the life of a ten-year-old child.  If the murderer hadn’t been working alone, Batman would force the information from him and go after the leader.  He would not stop looking for the monster who had ordered a man to take a gun into a circus tent.  If the gunman _had_ been working alone, then he was a psychopath who needed a life sentence in prison.

            “Are you alright, Master Bruce?” a gentle voice whispered next to his ear.  Bruce looked up, surprised, and realized he was standing beside the open door of the long, black car.  Wondering how long he had been there, he shook his head and climbed inside.

            Two minutes later they were on the road to Wayne Manor and Bruce told Alfred the entire story.  His face and voice remained emotionless but his insides flipped upside down when he described the actions of the lost boy.  Bruce remembered the pain of watching his parents die and had witnessed the same heart-wrenching pain burst out of the body of the young, innocent acrobat.

            “They will find him, sir,” Alfred quietly stated after Bruce had finished the account.  “He will go back to them; they are the only family he knows.  They will love him and take care of him and he will grow into a strong young man.”

            Bruce remained silent and the butler glanced in the rearview mirror.  Regret and sorrow were now etched deeply onto the younger man’s face and Alfred knew exactly what he was thinking.

            “It’s not your fault, sir; please don’t blame yourself.”

            “I was _right there_ , Alfred!  How can I _not_ blame myself?!  I was right…”

            He trailed off and turned his head toward the window next to him.  Staring at nothing, Bruce remained quiet for the remainder of the drive.  Alfred was right about one thing, though.  The youngest Grayson would return to the circus and the familiar people he had lived with for his entire life.  He would probably never fly again, but at least he would be safe.

* * *

            Pure luck and a bit of fear, that’s how Robin found a place to stay.  After the circus left, he wandered his way toward Gotham City.  He thought about trying to hitch a ride with someone but his parents were very strict about strangers.  Rules were rules, even though they weren’t here with him.

            The road he was on led straight to the center of the city.  People began to stare as he walked down the street.  He was uncomfortable and, yes, a little bit scared.  Then he realized that he probably looked strange wearing an over-sized t-shirt on top but only tights on the bottom half of his body.  Quickly turning around, he ducked into the closest alley and followed it for what felt like twenty miles.  It was actually only two but he was tired and hungry and anxious and ten years old.

            The narrow pathway led him to another, longer pathway that led him to Crime Alley.  There were no signs proclaiming that fact so Robin had no idea that he was entering the most dangerous area of Gotham City.  It was almost noon but nobody was around.  The place reminded him of the ghost town he had seen when the circus had traveled through Scotland two years ago.

            A scratchy voice startled him.  “Go home, kid.  This is no place for a child.”  The words were whispered and Robin’s fear increased.

            “Why?” he whispered back, looking around for the source of the voice.

            “Just get out!” the voice demanded quietly.  An old man with gray hair and a cane stepped out of the house right next to the boy.

            “But I have nowhere to go!” Robin exclaimed, his voice a little louder than before.

            “Shush your mouth, boy!” the old man replied softly, holding up his right hand and glancing around.  “This is Crime Alley, the domain of our city’s worst criminals and vicious villains.  They’ll have no qualms about picking on a kid like you!”

            _Crime Alley, criminals and villains, exactly where I need to be._

            Robin shook his head.  “I’m not leaving,” he stated firmly.  “Like I said, I have nowhere to go.  Can you help me?”

            The man violently shook his head.  “Nobody helps anybody around here.  Not even kids.  You want to face the wrath of a bunch of bad guys?  Fine, stay, but leave me out of it.  I’m already too involved because I warned you.”

            Turning around, the old man walked back into his house.  Robin stood on the cracked cement of the sidewalk and tried to think of some sort of plan.

            “Or you can join my gang,” a menacing voice whispered from the darkness behind him.

            He didn’t turn around, he didn’t even wait for the voice to show himself.  Robin took off, sprinting down the street and not daring to stop until he had left the place in the dust.  Now, however, he was practically in the middle of nowhere. 

            There was a group of three dilapidated shacks in front of him, the only structures still standing in what looked like a small suburb of Crime Alley.  They had clearly been abandoned for a long time and were crumbling into each other.  The rooms were probably going to be hot in the summer and cold in the winter.

            “Good a place as any,” Robin mumbled as he walked toward the shack in the middle.  It would provide the most shelter – the roof was intact, there was a door hanging by its hinges and the walls would stay upright, as long as the other two buildings continued to provide support.

            The first thing he did upon entering was shoo the five or six rats out of the place.  He looked around: there was a fairly long, sturdy-looking shelf on the wall to his left, a rusty sink straight in front of him and a partially chewed thing that looked a little like a sleeping bag on the floor to his right.

            Placing the blanket on the ground, and sighing in relief at the easing of his burden, Robin opened it and immediately began placing the food on the shelf.  Rats were less likely to get it if it was off the floor.  Well, he hoped that was the case anyway.  The sink would never be good for water so he put the pillowcase of money in the bottom and piled the fabric and soap on top.  Now he had a home, not the nicest place ever but it provided shelter and that’s all he needed.

* * *

**Three months later:**

            The last portion of food he had brought from the circus was currently on its way to Robin’s stomach.  He was going to have to begin buying food, which meant going to Crime Alley during the day.  It was something he had never done and it made him nervous.

            He had hoped that the food would last longer, especially since he was only allowing himself two meals a day instead of three.  But even carefully rationed supplies eventually run out and now he had no choice: he had to buy food.

            Training himself to fight was harder than he had originally thought.  He had no expert examples to follow and, really, no idea what he was doing.  Robin had been going to Crime Alley almost every night, watching rival gang members fight each other and attempting to sear the images into his brain so he could practice at home.  But even that wasn’t helping much; most of the criminals used guns or knives, neither of which Robin had or wanted to own.

            There was an old Sycamore tree in Robin’s “backyard” and it became his practice dummy.  After numerous nights of attacking it with random punches, like he had seen the street gangs do, the ten-year-old decided that maybe he should attempt to invent his own way of fighting.  It would save his knuckles from their nightly bath of blood, the result of hitting the bark of a tree over and over, and he could customize it to fit his much smaller body size.  He also realized that his arms, although strong, probably wouldn’t make a significant impact on a large face or adult-sized body.  But using his legs to add power could make a difference.

            So, Robin began creating his own style, one that depended on momentum and acrobatic tricks.  The force he could generate from a simple round-off back handspring surprised him and he started adding flips and aerials and twists.  His favorite, so far, was a back layout that would end with him clasping his hands around the back of a criminal’s neck and slamming the bad guy to the ground face-first.  He had never tried anything on a real person, though, so he wasn’t quite sure what would actually work and what was just an awesome yet impossible idea.

* * *

**Three months later:**

            Now he was out of money.  Crime Alley had very affordable prices but allowing himself a third meal once in a while had depleted his resources much quicker than he had anticipated.

            “So, what now?  Do I just go digging through dumpsters?” he asked the two rats that had made themselves at home under the old, rusted sink.

            The thought made him gag slightly but old food was better than no food.  He made a promise, though: he would only eat something that was completely intact and safe – no animal or human bites, no mold and definitely no maggots.

            The boy had been working on his “uniform” in preparation to begin his career.  The sheer tights, green leotard and dark-red tunic were the major components.  The dried blood of his parents had stiffened the material but it was still sufficiently pliable for his athletic tricks.  Robin was smart enough to realize that he needed some sort of disguise for his face but the only thing he could think of was a thin strip of fabric with two holes for his eyes.  He thought it probably looked really stupid but at least people would remember a black mask instead of distinctive, light-blue eyes.

            A final touch was added as an afterthought.  There was a small square of yellow fabric, his mother’s favorite color.  Using a sharp stone, the boy had painstakingly cut a jagged ‘R’ out of the material and fastened it on his tunic, right over his heart, using several strips of black tape he had found in an alley.  That same alley had provided him with four dirty but brightly-colored thumbtacks, which he had used to pin his poster of The Flying Graysons to the back wall of his home.

            He was getting much better at fighting.  Robin had been skulking through Crime Alley every night for the last three weeks, searching for illegal activity and taking down small-time criminals – mostly muggers who were snatch-and-run experts.  Last night, though, he had actually saved a woman who was about to be jumped by two large men.  That had been painful but very informational.

            Robin had left two unconscious bodies lying on the sidewalk in the shadows of a tall building.  He had also departed the fray with a swollen left eye, a dark bruise on his right forearm, a slightly sprained left ankle and several smaller bruises scattered around his entire body.  However, he now knew that it would be smarter to find his target’s weakness before attacking.  The larger man had a limp and, if Robin had noticed it, the guy could have been taken down quickly.  Then he would have been able to focus on one pair of giant hands instead of having to dodge four hands and three legs while flipping around in the air.

            Most of his tricks actually worked, Robin had discovered that fact last night, but he hadn’t been strong enough to try his favorite one.  The nearly five minute fight had taken its toll and the ten-year-old had instantly decided to work on endurance.  The stamina necessary for an aerialist was definitely not the same as the energy required to be a crime-fighter.

* * *

**Three months later:**

            The back layout was an impossible trick.  The first time Robin had tried it he had flown too far over his opponent’s head and had received a hard kick in the chest upon landing.  The second time he had done better, grasping the man’s hair when he reached the peak of his flip.  That, however, had allowed the criminal to grab his shoulders and throw him to the ground.  It was the first time he had discovered how it felt to have the wind knocked out of him.  Robin decided that he would rather be able to easily breathe without gasping, so he put the trick on a shelf in the back of his mind.  Maybe he would try it again in a couple of years, after he was both stronger and more experienced.

            Almost every single criminal he fought was larger than him.  Robin never left a fight unscathed but most of his injuries were bruises.  Many of the bad guys couldn’t keep up with him but were able to get in at least three or four lucky punches.  More than once the young crime-fighter had returned home with blood dribbling down the side of his head or dripping from a split lip.  But he had never sustained serious injuries and was gaining confidence.  He knew, however, that his luck wouldn’t last forever.  Someday something really bad was going to happen but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

            Crime Alley, as horrible as it was, had many law-abiding citizens with good hearts.  The man who owned the grocery store would sometimes leave a little bowl of fruit – usually grapes or apples or bananas – by his back door with a small note: for the boy in the mask.  Robin was always extremely grateful when he found that brown bowl sitting in the alley behind the store.

            The woman who owned the bakery did the same thing.  Her tiny plates of bread were usually accompanied by a small bottle of ice-cold milk.  Those didn’t appear as often as the fruit but when they did Robin felt he was eating like a king.  Especially when all three donations were gathered on the same night.

            But there were nights when nothing was in the back alleys and Robin was forced to look through dumpsters.  It was amazing how much leftover food was tossed away without any sign of consumption.  Hamburgers, bread, hot dogs, crackers and once in a while a potato would show up.  He was disgusted by what he was doing but the fuel allowed him to do his best to protect the citizens of Crime Alley night after night.

            Robin rarely went there during the day.  He had no money to spend and the sight of Crime Alley in the daytime was not at all pleasant.  Sometimes he would wander around, unobtrusively listening for criminals making plans, but those days were few and far between.  Strolling through the streets during the day meant wearing one of the two sets of clothes he had brought with him, which were getting holes.  It wasn’t unusual for people to have clothing like that in Crime Alley but his jeans, t-shirt, long-sleeve shirt and thin jacket were the only protection he had in the winter.  And he was just discovering how cold Gotham City could be during that particular season.

            The cold made fighting in his short uniform more painful.  Robin often began his night by jogging around his house and tree at least three times to warm up his muscles.  Every punch or kick hurt more than usual but that meant the hits _he_ landed hurt the criminals more, also.  Upon his return, and after doing what he could to fix his injuries, Robin would put on every single piece of clothing he had and wrap himself tightly in his parents’ blanket.  Sleep was slow in coming on those cold nights but his dreams always turned into nightmares anyway so the lack of sleep didn’t bother him very much.

* * *

**Three months later – present time:**

            Robin crouched in the shadows of the crumbling diner, watching the small family stroll down the sidewalk on the other side of the street.  They were on their way home from the theater, having just seen a performance of “Cinderella” by the Gotham City Ballet Company.  Why someone would build a theater in the middle of Crime Alley would forever be a mystery to Robin.  He also didn’t understand why a company as reputable as GCBC would choose to perform there.  But solving those two mysteries wasn’t part of his job description.

            Narrowing his eyes, he redirected his thoughts.  The father, mother, teenage son and young daughter were chatting and laughing, completely oblivious to the danger lurking behind them.  The eleven-year-old crime-fighter watched the tall, shadowy figure ambling along, staying far enough away to avoid suspicion but close enough for a quick attack-and-run.

            There was no doubt in Robin’s mind about the imminent act of violence.  The large silhouette carried in his left hand the distinctive outline of a knife.  Robin hated knives.  Close combat, something in which he was not yet confidently proficient, became much more difficult with a weapon involved.  The young boy didn’t scare easily but he was scared of knives.

            Shrugging his shoulders, there was nothing he could do about it right now, Robin waited until the family was ahead of his position.  Three seconds later the shadow was striding past him.  Jumping to his feet, Robin sprinted across the street and slammed his entire body into the left side of the man.  The knife clattered to the ground underneath the combatants and the boy allowed a quiet sigh of relief.  They were even now, neither had a weapon.

            The large man stumbled sideways but recovered quickly.  Twisting to face the boy, he threw a huge right fist at the small face.  Robin ducked, easily avoiding the hit, then dropped back until his hands hit the ground.  His wrists accepted all of his weight as he lifted his legs and shoved them into the unprotected ribcage of the criminal.

            This time the shadow stumbled backward and curved in on itself as Robin popped up to his feet.  Clear opportunities could be few and far between.  This was one of them and the boy didn’t waste time – that, after all, could get him killed.

            The man was bent over, hands on his knees and gasping for air.  The former aerialist took one giant step back then sprinted toward the man.  The front flip was executed perfectly and Robin landed squarely on the criminal’s upper back, shoving him to the ground.  The tall man landed face first on the cement and stopped moving as the still-oblivious family turned the corner and disappeared.

            Breathing heavily, the young vigilante – because, really, that’s what he was – jogged across the street and headed home.  He didn’t feel the dark gaze on his back or hear the whisper of a cape swishing in the slight breeze.  Robin did, however, hear the soft sound of two boots landing lightly on cement and he quickly turned around in the cover of the shadows.

* * *

            High above the street, on the rooftop of a tall building, a muscular silhouette watched the boy leave.  The dark-blue eyes, nearly hidden behind a cowl, were wide with astonishment.  Batman was fascinated by the fluid way the person – obviously a young kid – had fought, although the beginning move was rather sloppy.  However, a running front flip that knocked a large man out cold was _very_ impressive.

            Before the man could glide off the building to follow the small fighter, the boy was gone.  The only evidence that he had been there was a body lying motionless in a small puddle of blood.  Athletic _and_ speedy – a good combination for a crime-fighter to have, especially one so small.

            As he put the Bat-cuffs on the limp criminal, Batman wondered what had motivated the kid to take out this man.  A dot of light from a streetlamp fell on the blade of the criminal’s knife and the Caped Crusader immediately understood the boy’s reasoning.  That realization brought several questions to his mind.  Did the boy patrol Crime Alley every night, like Batman did Gotham City?  Did he have any real training or was he self-taught?  Where did he live?  And why were his parents allowing him to run around at midnight fighting bad guys?  Perhaps they didn’t know….

            Batman pulled his Bat-communicator out of his belt, called Alfred and asked him to call Commissioner Gordon.  A criminal needed to be picked up and the crime-fighter needed to continue his patrol.  After ending his call, the usually-keenly-observant Caped Crusader glanced around one more time.  Seeing nothing unusual, he returned to the shadows and moved down the street.

* * *

            The quiet, nearly invisible Robin watched with wide eyes.  He had just seen _Batman_ in action and the man was intimidating but amazing!  The guy had swung down from several stories up without hurting himself and used some kind of special cuffs to restrain criminals!

            The young boy didn’t even _have_ cuffs, or a way to contact someone and tell them to send the police.  He usually just left the criminals where he had knocked them out, knowing that eventually someone would find the unconscious bad guys.

            Robin decided he wanted a big, cover-half-his-face mask, like the man, instead of the one he currently had that only went across his eyes.  The cape was pretty cool, too, but he didn’t have enough material to make something like that.  Now that he thought about it, he probably didn’t even have enough for the larger mask.  So he pushed the idea to the back of his mind, whirled around and raced away without making a sound.  He turned north into the alley behind the diner, heading for the relative safety of his home and a restless sleep full of nightmares.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

            “Alfred!” Batman shouted as he exited the Batmobile.

            Glancing up from his position by the Bat-computer, the butler inquired, “Is it absolutely necessary for you to yell every time you enter the Batcave, sir?”

            Ignoring the question, Batman strode to the Bat-computer but immediately realized that he had nothing to input.  He didn’t know anything about the small crime-fighter, except for the fact that he was athletic and speedy.

            “Master Batman?” Alfred quietly interrupted his thoughts.

            “I saw someone, Alfred.  A boy, probably around nine or ten, and he knocked out a criminal.  He was a little sloppy with his first move but then he did a perfect front flip in order to land on the man’s back and knock him to the ground!  I’ve never seen anything like it!”

            “Did you get a good look at him, sir?”

            “No, he was quick.  I was seven stories up and by the time I landed he was already gone.  I don’t even know which way he went!”

            “Hmmm, an interesting mystery for the World’s Greatest Detective, sir?”

            “Maybe,” the hero murmured.  “But I have my hands full right now.  Is it important enough for me to take my attention away from protecting Gotham City?”

            “That, Master Batman, is for you to decide.  He did help you, sir, although he probably didn’t know it.”

            “It’s not an urgent priority,” Batman sighed.  “Penguin escaped yesterday and I just found out that Riddler was let out on parole for ‘good behavior’.”

            “I doubt that his ‘good behavior’ will last long, sir.”

            “I agree.  Those two by themselves render the boy less important,” the Caped Crusader replied.  “Gathering information about him, I mean,” he amended.  “The kid himself is obviously significant.”

            “Obviously, sir,” Alfred agreed with a slight grin.  Batman was more interested in this new development than he realized.

* * *

**The next morning:**

            The familiar scratching of the rats, his alarm clock, woke Robin out of his troubled dreams.

            “Sorry, guys,” the weary boy whispered as he sat up.  “I don’t have any crumbs for you today.  Dinner consisted of two pieces of bread that were a day older than the expiration date.  Don’t people realize that food usually lasts longer than the date?  Anyway, I forgot lunch so I ate both pieces.  Sorry,” he stated again.

            The larger rat stared at Robin in obvious disappointment while the smaller one scuttled away.  Shrugging, the eleven-year-old stood up and began his morning stretches.  Sleeping on the floor was not good for the back but during the past year he had figured out the exact combination of stretches to keep himself limber and flexible.

            His heart suddenly felt heavy with deep sorrow.  Robin retrieved his old, ratty journal from off the long shelf and sat down on his makeshift bed.  Maybe writing would help.

* * *

Wednesday, March 24    

            Well, the anniversary is almost here.  I don’t want to think about it but how can I not?  In two days it will be the first anniversary of the death of Mom and Dad.  Training myself and fighting bad guys has helped lessen the pain, once in a while, but it suddenly came back with a vengeance and I know it will be worse by the time that night rolls around.

            I saw Batman last night.  It was a cool experience, even though I didn’t get to watch him fight.  I’ve heard he’s really good.  Hopefully, he didn’t see me take down the bad guy because I’m still not very good at hand-to-hand combat.  It’s hard to train for that when I can only fight a tree.

            But I think I’m pretty good when I have the advantage of surprise.  I can knock a guy out with a front flip or a backflip, something nobody expects from a kid.  Crime Alley can be scary but it’s also the best place to find the bad guys.  I’ve been to a few other parts of Gotham City and taken down some criminals but there is usually a policeman somewhere nearby.  I can’t let an officer see me and discover who I am because then everything I’ve worked for will be taken away.  Nobody would ever think that an eleven-year-old could, or should, fight crime.

            So, I usually stay in Crime Alley.  It is both the safest and most dangerous place for me to fight.  I haven’t seen any of Gotham’s famous villains yet and I’m not sure I want to.  There are so many stories and I don’t think I would win if I had to go against Penguin or Joker or Riddler or Two-Face or even Catwoman.  Yeah, they have some pretty weird names around here.

            Anyway, I’m done writing for today.  I’m pretty sure I’ll be back on the anniversary.  I don’t think I’ll be able to hold my emotions inside on that day.  So, for now, bye.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who gave me kudos!

** Chapter 3: **

**The next evening:**

            “Your good behavior didn’t last very long, Riddler,” Batman stated as he snapped his Bat-cuffs around the wrists of the green-clad villain.

            “You’ve solved all my riddles this time, Batman, but our battle has just begun!”  The man started giggling hysterically as Chief O’Hara grabbed his arms and pulled him toward a squad car.

            Batman turned around and strode to the Batmobile.  Just before climbing in, he paused – something didn’t feel right.  He slowly looked around the area, studying the dark corners and carefully listening for anything unusual.  Nothing seemed out of place and there were no shadows slinking around any buildings.

            The Caped Crusader narrowed his eyes; Riddler had been caught but Penguin was still free.  Perhaps one of that villain’s henchmen was watching him.  It was worth checking out so he shut the door of the Batmobile and walked toward the nearest building.

            He was six yards away when he saw it, but only because it moved.  The small silhouette had blended into the wall so well that even the World’s Greatest Detective hadn’t noticed it.  The figure darted away into the darkness behind the building and Batman immediately decided to follow.

            Rounding the corner, he was surprised to see the shadow already at the end of the block.  So, Penguin had a henchman who could run.  Batman increased his speed as the small figure turned the far corner.  Four seconds later he was heading around the same corner.  Something hard unexpectedly slammed into his chest and he heard a small but audible ‘crack’ as he stumbled back.  The Caped Crusader uncharacteristically tripped on the edge of the sidewalk and fell to the ground.

            There was a quiet gasp, a quickly whispered apology and the shadow was gone before Batman even had a chance to stand up.  The hero’s ribcage was already sore and he was astonished at both the force of the hit and the speed of the goon.  Penguin had found a fairly impressive henchman.

            Shaking his head, still in slight disbelief, Batman stood up and returned to the Batmobile.  A thought strolled through his mind as something registered in his brain: the figure had apologized.  A henchman wouldn’t _apologize_ for knocking down Batman!

_The boy?  But how could a boy be strong enough to crack a rib and push me back several feet with a single hit?_

            Batman pondered that thought for the duration of the drive to the Batcave.  It wasn’t possible; a _child_ wouldn’t be able to hit that hard.  Impossible…right?

* * *

            Robin had been following the giggling man for several blocks.  He recognized that this person was a villain and he had never fought an actual _villain_ before.  However, he couldn’t allow the guy to rob a bank!  That’s what he had heard upon accidentally discovering a hideout deep in the shadows of Crime Alley.  The villain and his henchmen were going for the vaults with jewels and gold and money and other valuable things.

            For a brief moment, the eleven-year-old pictured himself holding a stack of bills and using it to buy food or clothing.  He was not, however, tempted to join in the robbery.  It was his job to stop it, not encourage it.

            There were loud noises up ahead – pain-filled yelps and the distinctive sound of flesh hitting flesh.  Robin pushed himself against the wall and carefully slid toward the corner.  He peered around the edge and stared in amazement at the scene before him.

            Batman had already taken out two men and was fighting three more simultaneously!  The leader, Robin heard the name Riddler, was circling around the fight, probably looking for a way to cheat.  The young crime-fighter knew that from experience: criminals always cheat.

            The Caped Crusader, that was a nickname Robin had heard just two days ago, was an incredible fighter.  His fists flew fast and always hit exactly the right spot.  He seemed to know when someone was about to attack from behind because he would whirl around at the perfect moment and block the strike.

            _How does he do that?  I wish I was that good._

            Batman’s cape swished around, sometimes confusing the bad guys, and he often pulled small weapons from a belt around his waist.  The yellow belt had pockets everywhere and Robin stared at the man in awe.  So, this was what a real hero looked like – a full-fledged, fear-inducing, city-protecting hero.

            All the men were on the ground now except the leader.  Riddler advanced but was quickly taken care of by a blue-gloved fist punching him in the head.  The sound of sirens filled the air and flashing lights entered the area.  Batman was crouching over the green-clad villain, using his special cuffs to restrain the man.

            Robin watched as the hero had a short conversation with the bad guy before striding to a vehicle that Robin hadn’t even noticed.  The boy’s eyes widened: so _that’s_ what the Batmobile looked like up close!

            The man paused and slowly looked around so Robin flattened himself against the wall and stopped breathing.  Suddenly Batman was walking toward the boy’s position.  He couldn’t let Batman find him so Robin turned and raced away without looking back.  But the man was following him, the boy could hear the rhythmic pounding of boots landing on and taking off of cement.  Not only was he following, he was running!

            Increasing his speed, Robin decided that he had to stop Batman before escaping to his home.  Nobody could find out where he lived, or how old he was, or what he looked like or…anything!  He turned a corner, climbed on a conveniently located wooden crate and waited.

            Four seconds later Batman came flying around the same corner.  Robin jumped and thrust both feet into the man’s chest.  There was a ‘crack’ and Batman stumbled back then fell to the ground.  The eleven-year-old gasped in dismay.  The man wasn’t supposed to get hurt!

            “Sorry,” Robin whispered before turning around and sprinting away again.  One thought ran through his mind as he headed home: he had _injured_ Batman!

            Eleven minutes later he entered the broken door and collapsed on the old sleeping bag.  He was exhausted and full of both regret and shame.  It had been an idiotic decision, attacking Batman like that, and now the man probably thought he was a criminal.

            There was nothing he could do about it now, however, so Robin laid down and immediately fell asleep.

* * *

**The Batcave:**           

            “Alfred!” Batman shouted as he climbed out of the Batmobile.

            Glancing up from his position by the Bat-sound Analyzer, the ever-patient butler replied with his usual question.

            “Is it absolutely necessary for you to yell every time you enter the Batcave, sir?”

            And Batman, just as he did every time, ignored the question.  He walked to the medical area, removing his cowl on the way, and opened the drawer containing the Bat-wrap.

            “What happened, sir?” Alfred inquired, walking over with a frown on his face.  At least his charge wasn’t bloody or stumbling around.

            “Just a cracked rib,” came the reply.

            “Just, sir?” the butler asked, the two words outlined with both amusement and relief.

            “And it wasn’t even Riddler or his henchmen that did it!” the Caped Crusader continued as he began wrapping his torso.

            “Penguin?” Alfred sighed.  “Or a henchman?”

            “Neither, I think.”

            At that reply, Alfred raised his eyebrows quizzically.  Batman didn’t say anything so the butler took the lead.

            “Then who, sir?”

            “I think it might have been the kid that I told you about the other night.”

            “The one that knocked a man out with a flip, sir?”

            Looking at his butler in mock exasperation, Batman replied, “What other kid would I say might have been able to crack my rib?”

            Grinning slightly, Alfred acknowledged the comment with a courteous nod.

            “Did you follow him, sir?”

            “Yes, until he kicked me in the chest, cracked my rib and shoved me to the ground.”

            “What!” Alfred exclaimed.  “He knocked _you_ to the ground, Master Batman?!”

            “He caught me by surprise,” Batman replied defensively.  “And the kick, or hit, or whatever it was, had a good amount of force behind it.  Then he was gone before I stood up.  Oh, and he apologized while I sat on the sidewalk catching my breath.”

            “He…apologized, sir?”

            “It sounded like ‘sorry’ but maybe it was a hiss of displeasure.  What was he doing in the center of Gotham City so late?  Was he actually a part of Riddler’s gang?  He’s a mystery, Alfred, one I need to solve.”

            “It is my opinion, sir, that he _fights_ criminals, not joins them,” Alfred stated firmly.

            “Then why would he…?”  The hero’s eyes lit up in understanding.  “He must have followed Riddler but I stopped them before he had the chance to do it himself.”

            Batman had finished wrapping his ribs and was now sitting at the Bat-computer.  He typed “young crime-fighter” but received nothing in return.  So he tried “young vigilante” and “crime-fighting child” but still received nothing.

            “This is ridiculous,” he murmured, frustration evident in his tone.  “I need some piece of information for a starting point and I have nothing.”

            “Perhaps the World’s Greatest Detective should _find_ a starting point, then, sir.”

            Nodding, the hero stood and strode to the Current Criminal Activity Bat-disclosure Unit.  He pushed several buttons and flipped a lever on the left side.  There was a moment of silence followed by a series of short beeps.

            “The _Criminal_ Activity Bat-disclosure Unit, sir?” Alfred stated in slight disbelief.

            “I don’t have a _Hero_ or _Crime-Fighter_ unit, do I?” the Caped Crusader almost snapped at his butler.  “If nothing shows up here, then I can assume that he is not a criminal.  Or,” he immediately changed his mind, “at least a non-threatening criminal.”

            A card exited the slot with one word: Penguin.  Batman already knew that man was in town so he tossed the card into the trashcan next to the table.  It had been a stretch, the kid had taken down a criminal the other night, but it was better than doing nothing.

            Another card suddenly flew out of the machine and both men looked at each other in surprise.  Batman picked it up, stared at it for a few seconds and then handed it to Alfred.

            “It’s blank, sir.”

            “The machine doesn’t know his name?” the hero questioned.  “So, he _is_ a criminal?”

            “I refuse to believe that, Master Batman,” Alfred declared.  “This card could mean any number of things, sir, and is not necessarily information about the child.  Again, it is my opinion that he _fights_ crime, sir.”

            “Hmmmm…” Batman murmured vaguely before tossing the card in the trashcan.  He strode to his Bat-pole, lost in his thoughts.  Just before flipping the Compressed Steam Batpole Lift lever, he glanced back at his butler.

            “I hope your opinion is correct, Alfred.  I don’t look forward to sending a child to Arkham, even if he is a criminal.”

            Batman climbed on his cushion, flipped the lever and shot himself up to Wayne Manor.  Alfred, shocked at the statement, didn’t move.

            “To _Arkham_ , sir!” he whispered.  “Surely the commissioner wouldn’t be that cruel!”

            Shaking his head, the butler walked toward the service elevator.  Batman was always occupied with the latest schemes of various, dangerous villains.  Maybe he, _Alfred_ , should do a little digging himself.

* * *

Friday, March 26

            Today sucks.  I’m supposed to be quietly wandering around Crime Alley, gathering information about any criminal activity.  Instead, I’m sitting here in an abandoned shack with rats for roommates.  Crying is unacceptable; I’m not weak and they wouldn’t want me wallowing in self-pity.  But, it still sucks.

            I feel so dark inside.  My heart hurts, my bones are aching and I don’t feel like doing anything.  However, dad would tell me to ‘get up and get moving’ while mom would tell me to ‘make the best of things’.  I’m trying, and I’m fighting, but the only emotions I feel are anger and sadness.  I don’t even remember what it feels like to laugh anymore.

            On a different note, I finally saw Batman in action!  He made everything look so easy: the quick punches, the well-placed kicks and he had this awesome belt!  It had a bunch of pockets and weapons and he took down six men by himself!  I accidentally hurt him, he was following me and I can’t let anyone discover me, so I…well, I attacked him.  Stupid, I know, but at least he stopped chasing me.

            Anyway, it’s going to be completely dark in about an hour so this is the end for now.  Maybe beating someone up will make it hurt less.

* * *

**The Batcave - midnight:**

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

            “I’m sorry, sir, but Batman is unavailable,” Alfred stated after picking up the Batphone.  At that exact moment, the Caped Crusader slid down his Bat-pole and landed on the cushion.

            “One moment, sir,” the butler amended before Commissioner Gordon even had a chance to respond.

            “Yes, Commissioner?”

            “It’s Joker,” Commissioner Gordon sighed on his end of the Batphone.  “He’s escaped and has already threatened a bomb.  The call came from the docks on the west side of the city.”

            “I’m on my way, Commissioner.”  Batman hung up the phone and walked to the Batmobile.

            “Already, sir?” Alfred asked, not knowing the report Batman had just received.  The hero usually checked most of the Bat-machines for information before going out on patrol, which always took precisely twenty-two and a half minutes.

            “It’s Joker, Alfred, and he threatened a bomb by the docks.  So, yes, I’m going now.”

            “Very well, sir.  I’ll have Bat-ice and Bat-wrap ready for you when you return.”

            The butler knew that Joker was tricky and volatile and wickedly intelligent.  The villain always had some sort of trap waiting for the Caped Crusader and the hero had never been uninjured when he returned from an encounter with the Clown Prince of Crime.

            “Thank you, Alfred,” Batman stated, scowling at the comment even though he knew the supplies would be needed.  Joker was the near-perfect example of a villainous Batman, his non-existent fighting skills being the major difference between the pair.  He was also completely insane, making it difficult for the hero to predict what the villain was going to do.

            Growling at the thought that he had a weakness, the Caped Crusader climbed into the Batmobile and roared away.

* * *

**Thirty minutes later:**

            Batman could hear Joker’s wild laughter, even from nearly fifty yards away.  The hero was standing by the southern-most warehouse on the waterfront, watching the villain and his three henchmen unloading a truck at the other end of the row.  In order to find out what they were carrying into that warehouse, he would have to get closer.  But there was nowhere to hide along the way.  It was one long building instead of many separate structures – completely different from every other warehouse district in Gotham City.  There were no shadows to glide in and out of, no corners to peer around and no way to avoid being seen.

            A sudden explosion rattled the wooden docks and made the building shudder.  Small waves rushed over the banks of Gotham Harbor and Batman was tossed to the ground.  An orange and pink cloud briefly danced overhead before drifting apart and fading away.  The northern end of the long building had just been reduced to a massive pile of steel, cement and wood.

            “Wooooo hahahahahaha!  It works!” Joker exclaimed and Batman growled as he stood up.  It had been a test and now both men knew that the villain’s newest weapon was impressively dangerous.

            Stealth didn’t matter now, time was of the essence.  Batman took off, sprinting toward Joker and his two henchmen who were now loading instead of unloading the truck.  A thought zipped through his mind: hadn’t there been three henchmen before?

            Something crashed into the back of the Caped Crusader’s head and he saw stars.  Shaking away the bright flashes of light, Batman continued running.  He had slowed down significantly, though, and the third henchman swung the short plank of wood again.  This time Batman fell to the ground and stopped moving.

            “Well, boys, let’s get him in the box.  No time like the _present_!”  Joker whooped loudly while impatiently snapping his fingers at his goons.

            Two of the men picked up the limp body of the Caped Crusader while the other one held open a small door on one side of a giant, cube-like structure.  It was two stories tall, seven yards wide and three of the four side panels were made of strong, clear plastic.  The fourth side, the top and the bottom were covered with bright, birthday-themed wrapping paper and there was a perfectly tied purple bow on top.

            Grunting under the muscular weight of the hero, the two henchmen tossed him unceremoniously into the “present”.  The third goon closed the small exit and all three men sealed it tightly with packing tape that matched the wrapping paper.  The villain walked up to the cube and began tapping loudly on the thick plastic.

            “Batty Bat Batman!” he yelled.  “Time to wakey-wakey!”  There was no response and Joker frowned.  He nodded to his henchmen and one of them pushed a neon-yellow button on the wrapped side of the box.  Joker grabbed a small, purple microphone out of his jacket pocket and flipped up a neon-yellow lever near the bottom of the object.

            “BATMAN!  Wake up so we can play!”

* * *

            “…can play!”

            The screeching words echoed around his newest prison and Batman opened his eyes.  He was lying on his stomach with his right cheek resting on what felt like cardboard.  His head was already pounding and the amplified voice of Joker only increased the pain.  There was darkness all around him but he could clearly see the villain and his goons in the muted, yellow glow of the warehouse lights.

            Planting the palms of his hands on the ground, Batman pushed himself up to sitting and looked around.  A brilliant light suddenly filled the box, causing the hero to squeeze his eyes shut and grab his aching head.

            “Welcome, welcome, Bat-brain,” Joker taunted and Batman reopened his eyes.  “I have a special surprise for you.  But first, I want…”

            The villain trailed off and turned to his left.  Batman watched the man’s jaw drop open in shock and his eyes widen in what could only be described as amazement.  Abruptly, Joker turned and fled to the pile of rubble just west of Batman’s plastic-wrapped home.  He hunched down in the darkness of the debris and stopped moving.

            Batman had a clear view to the north, the south and the west.  The eastern wall of his prison was the one covered in paper so he had no idea what had made Joker flee.  He wasn’t able to hear very much through the heavy plastic but the Caped Crusader caught some scuffling sounds and quiet noises that sounded like yells.  Something hit the covered wall and the box wobbled but quickly steadied.

            Why was he just standing there?  Batman jogged to the south end of the box, turned around and sprinted north.  The entire weight of his body slammed into the plastic but it merely accepted the energy and used it to shove the hero back to the center of the prison.  He tried it again, and again, but still nothing happened.

            He realized it was virtually silent outside.  There was no movement from anywhere that he could see.  Turning his head over his left shoulder, Batman watched the evil eyes of Joker begin to twinkle with wicked delight.

* * *

            Robin had already circled Crime Alley and was on his way toward Gotham Harbor.  The gangster he had taken care of last week had mentioned something about a boat and weapons.  The eleven-year-old had been to the waterfront every night since then and nothing had ever happened.  Maybe it would be tonight; Robin really needed the distraction of a fight.

            A cloud of orange burst into the air as a thundering noise shook the ground.  The boy grinned – it looked like tonight was the night.  He was thirty-two yards away from the last row of warehouses.  The bomb originated there, he guessed, so he began running.

            There was a loud ‘smack’ just before Robin rounded the corner at the southern end of the long building.  He stopped short and pressed himself against the wall.  Peering carefully around the edge, he watched two men carry a limp body toward a giant box that looked like a present.  They must have tossed the person inside because thirty seconds later they walked into view empty-handed.  Robin could see one man on the north side of the box, three standing closer to the east side and one shadow inside.

            Indecision could kill a crime-fighter so, without hesitation, Robin started running along the edge of the building.  His footsteps were nearly inaudible – being a small acrobat was very useful – and the men were focused on the box so he felt rather safe.

            “…wake up so we can play!” an evil voice declared.  It was accompanied by an even more evil-sounding chuckle that made Robin’s blood run cold.

            The next thing he heard was a loud cackle and it was followed by a brilliant light that illuminated the entire cube.  He was still pressed against the wall and the position of the huge object didn’t allow him to see who was inside but it didn’t really matter.  The other four men were obviously criminals so the one in the box was an innocent victim.

            “I have a special surprise for you,” the voice was continuing to speak but Robin ignored it.  The three men on the east were standing in a line, looking bored and not paying attention to anything around them.  The boy smirked; they were sitting ducks.

            He lined up his shot, with his body as the weapon, and attacked.  His initial back handspring plowed into the side of the first man, who bent over in pain.  That allowed Robin to use the man like a vaulting table, pushing his hands off the large back and using all his momentum to slam his feet into the back of the head of the second man.  Immediately twisting away from the falling body, Robin landed lightly on his feet behind the third man.

            This man was, of course, the biggest one.  Big, however, usually meant slow and Robin was confident that he could take this guy down.  A huge fist was swinging toward his head.  The young crime-fighter ducked and spun to his left as the goon’s body followed the punch.  Robin was behind the man again and he didn’t waste time.  The henchman was turning around when he felt a light patter on his back right before a small foot smashed into his chin.  The big man watched blurry fireworks light up the sky as he dropped to his back and closed his eyes.

            That move was a new one.  After practicing on the tree over and over, Robin had decided to test it out.  He ran up the man’s back and threw himself into a backflip.  His rotation was quick and he kicked out when he saw the man’s head.  The kick had connected and the boy was pleased with the result: instantaneous unconsciousness.

            Landing lightly on his feet again, Robin stood up and glanced around.  The fourth guy was nowhere to be seen so it was time to free the captive.  He studied the east side of the box carefully.  There was no discernable exit there so he stepped around the north corner.

            Two sets of blue eyes, the younger pair a shade lighter than the older, connected and widened.  Batman stared through the plastic, astonished at the boy’s sudden appearance and obvious ability to take out three grown men.  Robin briefly gazed at the man in awe before realizing that he needed to get the box open.  His heart skipped a beat in excitement: he was about to rescue _Batman_!

            Batman was suddenly pointing and yelling something.  The plastic muffled the words and Robin shook his head, confusion on his face.  He pushed his bare hands against the plastic, testing for weaknesses, but froze when he heard the evil voice from earlier.

            “Well, well, well.  What do we have here?” Joker chuckled wickedly.

            Slowly turning around, Robin clenched his hands into fists and his entire body tensed up.  Joker stepped away from the debris of the building, holding a large chunk of wood over his shoulder like a baseball bat.

            “Leave him alone, Joker, he’s just a _kid_!” Batman yelled through the plastic.  Neither the man nor the boy seemed to hear him so the hero began pounding on the wall of his prison.

            The sound distracted Robin and he almost turned around.  But the villain, because Robin knew that this guy _had_ to be a villain, was advancing and he couldn’t chance taking his eyes off the man.

            “How old are you kid, eight?” Joker’s evil voice became conversational as he attempted to cause the boy to let down his guard.  There was no response and the man growled as he slowly ambled toward the large cube.

            “Where are your manners?!” he exclaimed.  “It’s rude to ignore a question, especially when an adult is the one who asks!  Respect your elders, didn’t your parents teach you that?  Where are your parents, by the way?  Do they know you are out here, all alone, pretending to be some sort of crime-fighter?”

            Tears welled up in his blue eyes but Robin refused to let them fall.  Why, on _this_ night of all nights, did he have to take on a man who decided to ask about his parents?

            His hands were so tightly balled into fists that his knuckles were white.  A shiver abruptly ran down his back and Robin suddenly felt slightly dizzy.  He shook his head, saw double for a moment, then stepped back into a defensive stance.

            “You look a little shaky, kid.  Is my newest gas affecting you in some way?”

            Gas?  Robin glanced around in alarm.  There was movement to his right and then the first man he had attacked walked in front of him.  The guy had his right hand over his nose and mouth and was holding a smoking flower on the palm of his left.  Robin instantly kicked the left hand with his right foot then jumped up, swung his left leg across his body and kicked the man on the side of his head.  The flower blew away on a small gust of wind and the goon fell to the ground.

            But the damage had been done.  Robin’s usually soft landing was replaced with a ‘thud’ as his body hit the ground.  Everything was blurry, colors were blending together and there was a roaring sound in his ears.  He was aware enough, however, to see the danger in the form of the approaching villain.  Shaking his head to try to push away the cotton balls that had suddenly taken over his brain, Robin slowly stood up.  The man was speaking but the boy could only hear his own breathing.

            Batman!  Robin suddenly remembered that Batman was trapped.  How was he going to release Batman when he could barely stand?  An idea skipped through his muddled mind and, since it was the only thing he could think of, he decided to do it.

            Robin could see shapes but not objects.  So, he was going to have to guess.  The villain was only three yards away and Robin realized he would have to fight before he could try his plan.  And he would have to fight well enough to give himself a small window of opportunity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**    

            Batman was shouting as loud as he could but everyone was ignoring him.  He pounded on the plastic, he threw himself against each wall and he used his Bat-knife to try to cut through the heavy material.  Nothing was working and now one of the goons was holding a gas-emitting flower directly in front of the boy’s face.

            The Caped Crusader watched the young crime-fighter sway slightly and waited for him to drop limply to the ground.  His eyes widened in astonishment, _again_ , when one foot kicked the flower away and the other foot knocked the henchman out.  But the boy’s body hit the ground almost as hard as the man’s did and Batman was sure he wasn’t going to get up.

            Somehow, the kid managed to stand again but his legs were trembling slightly and he was carefully shaking his head.  The strength and determination of the boy continued to impress the Caped Crusader.  However, Batman knew from experience that any gas created by the Clown Prince of Crime would be strong.  And the smoking flower had been right in front of the boy’s face for at least five seconds.

            It was clear to Batman that the young crime-fighter was rapidly losing – no, had already lost – control of the situation.  His lack of experience against a villain like Joker was obvious and he was about to get himself killed.  Growling in frustration, Batman paced angrily around his prison.  There was a way out; all he had to do was find it.

            He suddenly stopped pacing and shot an intense Bat-glare into the crazy, evil eyes of the psychotic man.  Joker’s gaze flickered to Batman but immediately returned to the boy.  His hands flexed around the stick of wood and his eyes began to glow with anticipation.  The boy didn’t respond to the movement and the hero assumed that he hadn’t even seen it.

            “ _LEAVE HIM ALONE, JOKER, HE’S JUST A KID_!” Batman thundered again as he futilely punched the plastic wall in front of him.  The only reactions were a flinch from the boy and a wicked grin from the villain.    

* * *

 

            Joker grinned as he tightened his grip.  This was going to be so easy for several reasons.  First, the kid was, well, a _kid_.  Second, the gas in the flower was a strong knock-out version that even Batman wouldn’t be able to withstand for long.  Third, the boy had no weapons – there was no place to put anything on his “uniform”.  Finally, he had not been trained by The Bat.  It was obvious that they didn’t even know each other.  And The Bat was the only crime-fighter who could defeat The Joker.

            “Are you ready to give in yet?  You look like you’re going to be sick.  I think you should just lie down and take a nap.”

            The boy wasn’t responding in any way so Joker lifted his weapon off his shoulder and prepared to swing.  A slight flinch was the only reaction and the villain cackled.  So easy.

* * *

            Surprise.  That was the only advantage Robin knew he was going to have.  His opponent was taller, stronger and definitely more experienced.  The fact that the man had captured _Batman_ was proof of that.

            The villain lifted the wood off his shoulder and the boy recognized the fact that it was aimed at him.  He almost attacked but forced the impulse away and it turned into a flinch instead.  The man’s chalk-white face was full of confidence and his blood-red lips were twisted in an arrogant sneer.

            Joker took a step forward and began his swing.  Robin dove under the piece of wood, throwing his right shoulder into the man’s ribcage and grabbing him tightly around the waist.  The stick fell to the ground as the man stumbled back.  Using his momentum, Robin arched his back, swung his legs backwards over his head and locked them around the villain’s neck.  He let go of Joker’s waist and swung himself up, forcing the villain to stumble away from the weapon.

            The man’s eyes widened in surprise and he attempted to pull apart the strong legs as he began to fall.  Quickly changing his mind, Joker dropped his arms and caught himself with his hands.  His arms collapsed but he merely crashed to the ground instead of slamming onto it.

            Robin landed on his feet, unlocked his grip, rolled away from the villain and popped up to his feet again.  The man was on his back, wheezing, and the boy didn’t waste time.  The edges of his vision were darkening as he stumbled over to the debris of the warehouse.  He had seen something useful earlier, when the villain had stepped out of his hiding place, but he wasn’t sure of its exact location.

            Luckily, it was the third thing he touched.  Grabbing it, he turned around and pointed it at the cube.  He waved his hand, hoping Batman would understand to get out of his way, and pulled the trigger.  Nothing happened and he mentally called himself an idiot.  Forgetting to prime it had wasted precious time.

            He pumped the handle on the back several times before aiming it in the general direction of the bulky, indistinct shape in front of him.  Robin’s right index finger pressed slightly on the trigger but he was unexpectedly pulled back.  A strong arm wrapped itself around his neck and his weapon fell to the ground with a ‘clang’.  Automatically, the young crime-fighter grabbed the villain’s arm and tried to pull it away while gasping for air.

            Joker squeezed the boy’s throat then lifted his right hand and slammed it first on the side of the small head and then into Robin’s ribcage.  The kid slumped and his arms dropped limply to his sides but the villain hung on to the small neck and punched again.  There was a loud ‘crack’ and the boy screamed in pain.  Releasing the body, Joker clasped his hands together and smashed them onto Robin’s lower back.  The boy dropped to the ground with a loud ‘thud’ and Joker viciously kicked him twice before stepping away.  Turning around, he strode to the giant stick and picked it up.

            Robin’s vision was now just a pinpoint of light but he could still see the gray of the weapon against the darker sky.  Shakily, he reached out his right hand and pulled the trigger as hard as he could.  A white-hot burst of fire shot out of the flame-thrower and Robin smelled the distinctive odor of burning plastic.

* * *

            Batman was staring at the young crime-fighter in amazement.  Not only had the boy managed to stand up, but he had also taken Joker to the ground and made it up to his feet again.  The hero suddenly noticed the boy waving at him and he ducked for cover when he saw the flame-thrower in the kid’s hands.  He waited five seconds and, when nothing happened, lifted his head.

            The young crime-fighter was pumping the handle on the weapon and Batman watched in trepidation as Joker stood up and quietly moved toward the boy.  Just before the kid pulled the trigger, he was grabbed from behind in a chokehold.  Joker showed no mercy, punching the kid two times in the same rib before throwing him down and kicking that exact spot twice.

            The boy wasn’t going to get up this time, Batman could tell by the pain that was etched onto the young features and the rapid fluttering of his masked eyes.  Joker had left but was re-entering the Caped Crusader’s line of sight, this time carrying the piece of wood.

            There was a small movement and Batman watched a shaky hand extend toward the flame-thrower.  Somehow the boy found the energy to pull the trigger and Batman dove to his right as the fire immediately burned a hole in his plastic prison.  He covered himself with his cape and raced through the flaming exit.

            Joker had the stick raised over his head and was about to slam it onto the smaller head of the motionless body on the ground.  Releasing his cape, Batman tackled the villain and punched him in the face.  The man had beaten a _kid_ and the hero was furious.  Joker got lucky when he swung his fist – it hit the cracked rib that the boy had given Batman yesterday.

            Batman automatically wrapped an arm around his torso and Joker shoved him off, snatching the stick off the ground before standing up.  The villain hit the hero on the side of his head with the sturdy weapon and Batman growled ferociously.  His cowl had lessened the force of the blow but his ears were lightly ringing.  Joker raised the wood again, forcing Batman to ignore the pain in both his ribcage and his head.  Rolling away from the hit, the Caped Crusader stood up, slightly dizzy and briefly disoriented.  The stick was already headed toward him for the third time and Batman ducked just before it connected with the left side of his face.

            Joker made the mistake of moving closer and the Caped Crusader quickly took advantage of the error.  Grabbing the villain’s wrists, Batman twisted until the man was forced to drop the stick.  The hero shoved the skinny arms away and began pummeling the villain’s torso.  The crazy criminal caved in on himself, Batman slammed his fist into the side of Joker’s head and the villain dropped limply to the ground.

* * *

            It was blazing hot around him and Robin’s eyes began to water.  The liquid cleared away most of the clouds in his vision and he saw a black shadow racing through the flames.  He realized that the shadow was Batman, who would take care of the villain.  Fighting off the urge to pass out, from both the pain and the lingering effects of the gas, Robin carefully stood up and wrapped both arms around his torso.

            There was liquid streaming down the right side of his face and Robin recognized the smell.  It was an odor he would never forget – blood – and he wanted to just sit down and rest.  But Batman couldn’t find out who he was, or how old he was, so the young crime-fighter staggered away from the two figures battling behind him.  If he could get to the end of the row before anyone saw him, he might be able to get home unnoticed.  After being in Gotham City for a year and fighting crime in the darkest and most dangerous places, Robin knew the black alleys, hidden tunnels and false walls like the back of his hand.

            A ferocious growl reached his ears as he turned the corner at the end of the row.  Robin knew he was almost out of time so, instead of immediately turning toward Crime Alley and home, he stumbled to the nearest dock.  Gingerly he sat down and silently he slid into the water.  He would wait here, in the cold, bone-chilling water, until he heard the Batmobile fade into the distance.  The cold would both keep him awake and numb his throbbing body.  Then, after counting to one thousand, he would make his way home.

* * *

            Joker would be out for a while so Batman whirled around, expecting to see a small body lying on the ground.  But the boy was gone!  How had he found the strength to leave after inhaling some sort of gas _and_ taking a beating?!  The Caped Crusader crouched near the outline of a body in the dirt.  There was a small puddle of blood and a trail leading toward the southern end of the warehouse building.  He had to secure Joker first, though, so Batman reluctantly turned away from the thin path and slapped his Bat-cuffs on the villain.

            There were three henchmen, the hero suddenly remembered, and they needed to be secured, also.  Walking around the box, he was astonished to see all three men completely knocked out.  It had been almost twenty minutes since Robin had appeared and Batman had assumed that the goons would be awake by now.  The fact that they were still unconscious meant that the boy had an incredible amount of force behind his kicks or punches or whatever he had used to defeat them.

            “How can a _kid_ be so strong?!” he exclaimed softly.  Batman rolled the limp bodies into a clump and wrapped a long Bat-rope around them, finishing with a tight Bat-knot.

            The hero’s ribs were throbbing and his head was pounding but he knew the boy would be in worse shape.  If he could find him, Batman would take him to the Batcave and have Alfred patch him up.  After giving the kid a small dose of Bat-sleep, of course.  The hero still needed to protect his identity, even if the boy wasn’t a criminal.

            Stopping at the Batmobile, the Caped Crusader called the commissioner and told him that Joker and his henchmen were ready to be picked up.  Then he turned his attention back to the crimson trail but it was gone.  The boy had been smart enough to go through the thick, weedy grass that covered the remainder of the dirt road.  Even with his Bat-flashlight, which he immediately took out of his utility belt, Batman couldn’t find the small trail.  The boy was severely injured and still he had been able to leave before the hero could talk to him.

            Wrapping an arm around his torso, Batman swept the Bat-flashlight around the area twice.  There were no unusual sounds or movements; the boy was truly gone.  Sighing, he strode back to the Batmobile, climbed in and headed back to the Batcave.

* * *

            “…hunnndreeeed niiiiine-ttyy niiiiine, one thoussssandddd,” Robin whispered, his teeth chattering as he finished his count.  His lower body was completely numb but his torso was throbbing.  It had been a stupid idea; he should have immersed his entire body.  But he had been worried that he would turn into a human popsicle, making it nearly impossible to get out.

            Carefully, Robin crawled out of the water using just his arms.  He flopped to the ground on his back, exhausted and shivering.  The night was warm and feeling immediately began returning to his legs.  The boy knew he needed to check his injuries and see if he could fix himself.  That, however, required going home which, in turn, required getting up.

            Groaning softly, he forced his muscles to contract in order to sit up.  His ribs felt like they were going to burst out of his body and his head was pounding.  Home was several miles away and he had to go through Crime Alley to get there.  Any weakness he displayed would be noticed, and taken advantage of, right away.  Robin wrapped his arms around his torso and slowly trudged away from Gotham Harbor.  Twenty-three minutes later, he forced himself to stand tall and hoped the streak of dried blood on the side of his head would blend in with his dark hair.

            The young crime-fighter traveled through the darkness behind the buildings in Crime Alley.  Every time he saw a shadow, he either crouched or flattened himself against the nearest wall.  There was no way he would be able to fight in this condition.

            Thirty-nine minutes after leaving the water, Robin walked through his door and breathed a sigh of relief.  He was so tired but he needed to figure out how to fix his ribs.  The ‘crack’ he had heard probably meant that a bone had broken and the immense ache that manifested itself with every breath practically confirmed his assumption.

            Holding back a cry of pain, the eleven-year-old boy lifted his arms and pulled his tunic over his head.  Then he pulled his green leotard off his shoulders and let it hang from his waist.  Breathing was agonizing and Robin discovered why when he looked down.  A giant purple bruise covered his torso and there was an irregular bump on the right side of his ribcage.

            “So, this is how it feels to lose a fight.”

            Robin had never gone up against a real villain.  The criminals he faced were usually either too slow to keep up with him or too dumb to realize what was happening.  He had been correct – he wasn’t ready to face the violent villains of Gotham City.  But at least he had helped Batman escape. 

            The boy had no idea what to do.  How could he fix a broken bone in his _torso_?  He had nothing with which to create a cast and he didn’t know how to make one anyway.  Was he even supposed to put a cast around his body?

            “I don’t know if I should do this anymore,” he whispered.  “I’m way out of my league.  What do I do with this?”  Robin gestured to his bruised chest as he asked the question to the air around him.

            But, his parents would never let him quit.  He had started this and he was going to continue fighting until the day he died.  Deciding he would work on his injury tomorrow, Robin grabbed his book and sat down.

* * *

Friday, March 26 or maybe it’s early Saturday morning, March 27

            Well, I saved Batman a couple of hours ago.  However, I also ran into a villain.  I tried to fight back but he was strong and tricky.  I think I have a broken rib that I don’t know how to fix.  I guess I’ll have to take a couple of nights off; maybe it will heal on its own…?  It hurts to stand, it hurts to sit and it hurts to breathe.  But I’m alive.

            I don’t know how I found the strength to leave when Batman and the other guy were fighting each other.  The only thing I was thinking about was the fact that nobody can find out about me.  Maybe that gave me extra fuel or something?  I’m a little concerned about the fact that Batman might be able to figure everything out; I’ve heard people call him the “World’s Greatest Detective”.

            Should I try to find him before he finds me?  I could ask for help, just with this major injury.  But what if he makes me tell him who I really am?  The risk isn’t worth it – I’ll figure it out on my own.  Somehow.

            Unhappy anniversary, Mom and Dad.  See you…sometime, I guess.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

            Batman, instead of sleeping and healing, was spending the night staring at screens.  He had hacked into all the video cameras by Gotham Harbor, several random ones in downtown Gotham and a few on the eastern side of Crime Alley.  The kid had to be somewhere; nobody could just vanish into thin air!

            At three o’clock, his persistence paid off.  A small body, probably the boy, came into view on a camera across from the edge of Crime Alley.  The figure was hunched over and moving slowly, obviously injured and in a great deal of pain.  But when he reached the border, the kid straightened up, ran a hand through his hair and walked confidently into the darkness of the most dangerous section of Gotham City.

            “He’s smart,” Batman murmured, knowing that any sign of weakness from anyone would immediately attract attention.  Quickly the hero pressed several buttons on the keyboard of the Bat-hacking machine, switching the view from the border to the center of Crime Alley.  He stared at the screen for several minutes, searching for any sign of the boy.  Nothing, not even in the shadows between the buildings.  More buttons were pushed, more views from different cameras were studied and still nothing was found.

            “He’s good,” Batman murmured again, impressed with the kid’s ability to become a ghost.  There was nothing else to be gleaned from the videos; it had already been half an hour since the boy had entered Crime Alley.  Shaking his head, slightly frustrated, the Caped Crusader turned off the Bat-hacking machine and stood up.  He stretched and winced at the ache in his chest.

            That brought a thought to his mind.  Could the kid take care of his own injuries?  Had he ever experienced a broken rib?  Would he know to wrap it and, if so, did he know _how_ to do it?  Batman hoped that the young crime-fighter had at least a little bit of medical knowledge.

* * *

**Mid-morning:**

            Robin’s nightmares had shifted.  Instead of watching his parents fall, he was staring into the crazy eyes of a green-haired man who was beating him to death.  He woke up sweaty and shaking with tears streaming down his face.  His torso was throbbing so bad that he didn’t want to move.

            The morning sun was shining through the broken wood of the shack on his left.  It fell across his face, making him squeeze his eyes shut.  The side of his head felt wet and he raised a hand to touch it.  Blood – somehow the wound on his head had opened during the night and fresh blood was now dribbling down his cheek.

            “I can’t…I’m sorry…I need you guys,” Robin groaned to the silence surrounding him.

            _Chin up, son.  You are strong and capable._

            His father’s voice echoed in his head and Robin’s eyes flipped open.

            _Live for us, my little robin._

            That was his mother and the words made him sit up.  He was not going to disappoint his parents just because he had a serious injury.

            Thinking back to his days in the circus, Robin tried to find a memory that involved someone getting hit in the chest.  After only twelve seconds he found it.  Two and a half years ago one of the clowns, Jerry, had been kicked by a horse.  The circus doctor had taken some material and wrapped it around the man’s torso.  Jerry was told to rest for at least three days and then no heavy lifting for another week.

            He had fabric in the sink.  Fire ripped through his torso when he stood up and Robin almost fell back down.  But he had a goal and The Flying Graysons always accomplished their goals.  Slowly, he walked to the rusted piece of metal and picked up the first piece of material.  It was too short for even his small body so he began searching through the little pile.  The very last piece was exactly the right size and he pulled it out of the sink.

            Robin had slept bare-chested because it hurt too much to try to re-dress.  Glancing down, he was disappointed to see that his ribs looked worse in the morning light.  The single purple bruise had turned into several dark-blue ones that were speckled with flecks of black and the bulge looked slightly bigger than it had last night.

            This was going to hurt, Robin was absolutely certain about that, but the anticipation was making it worse.  He began wrapping the soft material around his body, stopping to gasp for air after the first layer was in place.  The pain didn’t recede so he continued wrapping, trying to get it over with quickly.  Now, however, he realized that he had nothing to hold it in place.

            Robin looked all around his small room but there was nothing useful.  Growling in frustration, the eleven-year-old held the wrap in place with his left hand and slowly pulled his green leotard up over his right shoulder.  He did the same thing on the left and was relieved to find out that his leotard was snug enough to hold the material in place.

            The young crime-fighter needed food but didn’t feel like going out.  Maybe he would just skip breakfast, it was almost lunchtime anyway.  He would probably feel better in the afternoon so going out for a late lunch would be easier.

* * *

**Crime Alley – two o’clock:**

            Bruce Wayne strode down the main street of Crime Alley.  Anyone paying attention would think he was nervous but the man was actually carefully searching every place he could see.  The boy wouldn’t be worried about Bruce Wayne, a normal man with no obvious ties to Batman.

            There was a small figure sitting on the bench at the bus stop.  Grinning slightly, Bruce walked over and sat down next to the slumped body.  The person’s face was hidden by a baseball cap and his left arm was thrown haphazardly across his chest.

            “Hi,” Bruce stated softly.

            “Whatever,” a deep voice growled back and Bruce frowned.  This was obviously not the person he was searching for and he was disappointed.

            Standing up, he strolled away from the bench and stopped near the steps of the theatre.

            “You shouldn’t be here, sir,” a quiet voice came from behind him.

            Slowly turning around, Bruce gazed at the shadow sitting near the top of the stairs.

            “It’s not safe for a rich man like you,” the voice continued.  Bruce could hear the cadence of a child but it was outlined with a solemnity that belied its youth.

            “Why do you think I’m rich?”

            “Your suit, the way you walk, your case, pick something.”

            The tone was filled with deep sorrow and Bruce could feel tangible pain radiating off the small silhouette.

            “Are you okay?” the man asked quietly and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

            “What makes you think I’m not?”

            “You sound…distressed.”

            “Maybe I’m worried about your safety,” the child snapped defensively.  “Maybe you should mind your own business and leave this place.”

            “You’re the one that started the conversation,” Bruce replied calmly.

            “I was just trying to warn you but if you don’t want to listen then I’ll leave you alone!”

            The shadow abruptly stood up and Bruce noticed a slight flinch followed by a quiet gasp of pain.  A hand instinctively pushed itself against the silhouette’s chest and Bruce allowed a tiny grin to twitch at the left corner of his mouth.  Three obvious clues: the person was short, injured and a child.  Bruce was slightly confident that he was speaking to the boy who had rescued Batman last night.

            “Are you sure you’re okay?” the man asked again but the shadow didn’t respond.  Instead, it turned and nearly raced to the safety of the darkness behind the building.  Bruce thought about following but didn’t want to attract attention by running after a person he couldn’t even see.

            “I’ll be back later,” he promised softly, “and the next time we talk you’ll be more than just a silhouette.”

            Turning around, the millionaire strode back to the border of Crime Alley and the Wayne Foundation car that was waiting for him there.


	5. Chapter 5

** Chapter 5: **

**Crime Alley – midnight:**

            Batman was pacing.  He had landed on the flat rooftop of this centrally-located office building nearly two hours ago.  For the first ten minutes, he had crouched in the shadows between the two air conditioner units, scanning the streets below.  The next ten minutes were spent sitting on the peak of the roof of the building next door, searching the sky and the rooftops for an athletic shadow.  That was followed by thirty minutes of lying on his stomach at the highest edges of various buildings, carefully studying the darkest corners of several different streets.

            He had slowly circled around the perimeter of Crime Alley once and that took almost thirty-six minutes.  The next twenty-four minutes had been spent darting behind and around random buildings throughout the area.  And now here he was, back where he had started and pacing in frustration.

            The voice that Bruce had heard earlier in the afternoon belonged to the boy; Batman was more than slightly confident after having ten hours to ponder the obvious clues.  Who else would warn an obviously wealthy man to leave?  Nobody in Crime Alley looked out for anybody else.  The law-abiding citizens living in this section of Gotham City had a saying: “Keep to yourself and keep your head down”.

            The Caped Crusader chose to call off the search for now.  The kid had been seriously injured; hopefully he was at home, in bed and healing.  Batman decided to wait two more nights then come back and repeat this evening’s actions.

            Just as he pulled out his Bat-communicator, the hero noticed a movement on the street below.  There was a dark-green sedan driving slowly down the road with no headlights.  That in itself was suspicious.  A short figure suddenly darted across the street and the car immediately sped up.              

            Batman was about to jump off the roof to investigate when he heard the easily recognizable rattling sounds of several automatic weapons.  He sighed as he swung to the ground: another gang war.

* * *

Saturday, March 27

            I have decided to stay home tonight.  My ribs feel like they’re bursting into flames whenever I move.  The pain recedes to a deep, throbbing ache when I lie still so that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing.

            That villain last night got me good on the side of the head.  There’s a small cut but I guess it’s fairly deep because it wouldn’t completely stop bleeding.  I finally wrapped a piece of Mom’s quilting fabric around my head and I probably look like an idiot.  But it worked – I was able to go get something to eat without streaks of red sliding down my neck.

            Speaking of eating, I saw Bruce Wayne today when I went to Crime Alley for lunch!  I have no idea why he was here but he was alone and vulnerable.  I warned him to leave but he started asking questions so I was the one who left.  What would a guy worth millions of dollars be doing in such a dangerous part of Gotham City?

* * *

            Robin’s writing was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of gunfire.  He lifted his head and began debating whether or not to get involved.  But it stopped less than a minute after it started so the boy let it go.  Either the criminals had killed each other or someone had fled.  It didn’t really matter; it just meant that he didn’t have to move and for that he was grateful.

* * *

**Two nights later:**

            Robin was thinking about staying home for the third night in a row.  His torso was still sore but he was able to deal with the pain.  However, the normal stretches he did every day had been reduced to a single lap of walking around the outside of his house.  He didn’t even feel like jumping, much less fighting.

            But last night had been filled with gunfire and several piercing screams.  Robin couldn’t help but wonder if the bad guys had noticed his absence.  Was last night’s violence a product of his selfish decision to rest his damaged ribs?

            If so, taking another night off would be too risky.  There were children in Crime Alley; he couldn’t just leave them to fend for themselves.  If any kids became orphans because Robin was demonstrating weakness, he would never forgive himself.

            The material wrapped around his chest hadn’t moved since Robin had put it on.  He was scared to look at his injury but the fabric was bulky and would throw off his balance during a fight.  So, he slipped his leotard off his shoulders and began unwinding the long cloth.

            It looked better than he had anticipated.  The bruise was still dark but the spots were yellow and green instead of black.  He didn’t know what to do about the bulge, which looked the same as it had when he received the injury.  When he gently pressed on the rib, a fiery bolt of pain shot through his entire torso.

            “Shoot,” the young crime-fighter muttered.  “No allowing lucky punches tonight.”

            He curved into a backbend and nearly screamed in agony when his chest stretched with the movement.  Dropping to his back, he took several deep breaths as tears of pain trickled down his cheeks.

            Robin knew he wasn’t good enough to fight anybody if he wasn’t using his own techniques.  And his acrobatic style demanded the flexibility of his entire body.  Right now, he couldn’t even do a simple backbend without almost passing out.

            A shrill cry of pain sliced through the night air and Robin made his decision.  Carefully standing up, he slipped his leotard over his shoulders, slowly pulled his tunic over his head and wrapped his small, black mask across his eyes.  Crime Alley needed protection and it was Robin’s job to do that.

            Glancing back at the poster on his wall, Robin stated, “I’m not weak.  This pain is nothing compared to what some little kid could feel if I fail to save someone.  Love you guys.”

            Another shout burst through the new sound of gunfire and the eleven-year-old crime-fighter began jogging away from home.  Every step hurt but nobody was going to die because of him.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

            “More felonious activity in Crime Alley, sir,” Alfred stated.  He was standing by the Current Criminal Activity Bat-disclosure Unit, holding the card that had just exited the machine.

            “Again?!  This happened last night, too!” Batman exclaimed.

            “Well, sir, you did say that the boy was rather injured.  Perhaps he has chosen to stay home, wherever that is, and try to heal.  I know you suspect that he is part of the reason why Crime Alley has slightly calmed down.  If that’s correct, sir, then it’s no surprise that crime has increased since his injury.”

            “Hm,” Batman murmured in agreement.  “I’ll go out there again tonight.  Last night was almost a bloodbath, Alfred.  I can’t allow that to continue.”

            “Be careful, sir,” the faithful butler said as the Caped Crusader climbed into the Batmobile and roared away.

* * *

**Crime Alley:**

            The two gangs were spread out along the main street of the area, hiding behind trash cans and walls and fire hydrants and whatever else they could use for cover.  Robin was flattened against the side wall of the first building on the north end of the street.  Bullets were flying across the street at random times – there was no way to predict when they would be released or where they would hit.  Running down either sidewalk, taking out bad guys on the way, would be suicide.

            “The Bat!” someone suddenly yelled.  The declaration spurred a stampede as members of both gangs began racing away.  Robin’s eyes widened; they were sprinting towards his position!  Batman must be at the other end of the street.  Turning away, Robin started walking toward the nearest alley in order to avoid being crushed.  He froze, however, when the sound of a crying child assaulted his ears.

            Whirling toward the noise, he sucked in a sharp breath of dismay.  There were three large guys holding a small family hostage directly across the street from his position.  Robin peered around the corner of his building.  Batman was at least twenty yards away and occupied with seven or eight bad guys.  Something was going to happen before Batman could get there and Robin wasn’t going to allow that.

            “Let them go,” he growled softly as he stepped into full view of the three criminals.  Two of them had thick necks and bulging muscles – Robin named them Bull and Bear.  The third, probably the leader, was large but not muscular. 

            “Oh, look, it’s the itty bitty boy in the mask,” the leader taunted.  The tone of his high-pitched voice was condescending and he was sneering at the small figure in front of him.

            “You should leave, little one,” he continued.  “You’re no match for these two.”  The man flicked his head toward Bull and Bear and his sneer turned into a confident grin.

            Robin didn’t hesitate.  The bigger men were holding the parents and little girl while the leader was slightly off to the side.  Before any of them realized what was happening, Robin had sprinted across the street and barreled into the leader.  Stumbling back, the man threw a wild punch that passed harmlessly over the boy’s head.  Robin countered with a kick to the face that knocked the leader out cold.

            Two shadows suddenly loomed over the young crime-fighter and he turned around.  His torso was screaming and he was panting from the pain.  But the family had been released because Robin had redirected the criminals’ attention.

            He wanted to wrap his arms around his ribcage but that would show the men exactly where to attack.  The bones were on fire and the muscles were throbbing.  But Bear, the smaller of the two men who was still at least two times Robin’s size, was throwing a punch and all thoughts of pain fled as adrenaline rushed in.

            The hit was aimed at his stomach so Robin twisted left, allowing the fist to slide past his body.  Another, larger, fist whistled by his ear and the boy’s eyes widened.  That had been too close.  Both men were facing him now, forming a small circle and glaring viciously.  Robin had no room to do anything except crouch or jump.  He saw two pairs of eyes connect and silently communicate a plan.

            A twitch; that was all Robin needed to see.  The dark eyes of Bear glanced right and the eleven-year-old ducked.  Bull’s meaty fist, instead of connecting with Robin’s head, hit the chin of his large partner.  Bear yelped in both pain and anger while Robin crawled through the legs of the distracted man.  He stood up in the middle of the street and quickly turned, expecting an immediate attack.

            Bear was the only one there and Robin instantly realized that he had walked right into their trap.  Bull had swiftly circled behind him and suddenly he had one arm around the boy’s neck and the other across his chest.  The large muscles contracted and Robin saw black worms dancing in front of him.  Pain exploded throughout his ribcage and everyone heard the loud ‘crack’.  The young vigilante gasped in agony and wanted to give up.

            But Bear was turning back toward the frightened family – Robin briefly wondered why they hadn’t run away yet – and growling.  Both the action and the sound were, to Robin, unacceptable; whatever the man was thinking about doing had to be stopped.

            The young crime-fighter’s arms were trapped by his sides, his vision was blurry and he couldn’t breathe.  His legs, however, were free and uninjured.  Tilting his head to the left, as far as he could with a thick arm around his neck, Robin threw his right leg up and hoped something good would happen.  His foot connected solidly with some part of Bull’s face and the man automatically released the boy with a short cry of pain.

            Robin bent over, gasping for air and biting his cheek to stay awake.  There was a dripping sound behind him and he glanced over his right shoulder.  Bull was covering his face with both hands and blood was sliding down his arms.  It was time to finish this job so he could take care of Bear, who was now holding the little girl by her long, blonde hair.

            The eleven-year-old was already exhausted and in agony so he went with something simple.  Standing all the way up, he took two steps forward then threw himself into a rather sloppy back handspring.  That was followed by a back tuck that took Robin over the man’s head.  He timed the kick-out perfectly, as he usually did, and slammed both feet into the back of Bull’s neck.  The large man toppled forward and hit the asphalt face-first.  Robin, instead of landing on his hands and springing out of the trick, crumpled to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut.  Everything hurt and he couldn’t breathe.

            “He…help, ppplease,” came the soft, frightened voice of the little girl.  Robin’s eyes flipped open and he slowly forced himself to stand up.  Turning around, he glared at the blurry image of Bear, who had just pulled out a gun and was pointing it at the girl’s head.

            There was nothing he could do to stop a bullet that was so close to her head.  Even with his speed, by the time he got there she would be dead.

            “Let her…” Robin paused to wheeze painfully, “…go,” he finished quietly.

            “What are you going to do if I don’t?” the man growled.

            Something flew past Robin’s head and hit Bear’s hand, leaving a strip of red where the gun used to be.  Without hesitation the boy ran at the man.  He began with a front handspring this time, using the momentum to fly into a front layout.  The trapeze artist in him felt the proximity of something solid so he bent his knees and latched onto the shoulders of the startled man.  Swinging himself up, Robin began pummeling Bear’s face and head.

            Bear wasn’t completely stupid.  He had heard the crack and knew where Robin was vulnerable.  Blood was now streaming down his face, blurring his vision, but he didn’t need to see to slam two large fists into the sides of the young boy.  Robin went limp, Bear fell back and the man succumbed to unconsciousness when his head hit the ground.

* * *

            There were men all around him but Batman could see three large criminals surrounding a small family.  The sight was obstructed by a large fist that the Caped Crusader easily dodged.  Less than three minutes later he was done with the eight gang members that had been brave, or stupid, enough to attack him.  He looked up the street and was surprised to see one of the large men down.  Then he found out why.  A small body flipped over the head of the biggest criminal and Batman watched in awe as the boy kicked out, shoving both feet squarely into the back of the muscular neck.

            Batman was expecting the athletic boy to easily land on his feet.  But the kid crumpled to the ground instead and curled himself into a ball.  The last man standing was pulling out a weapon and Batman reached into his utility belt.

            The boy, however, was on his feet again and standing directly in between Batman and the large man.         

            “Let her…go.”

            That was definitely the same voice Batman had heard as Bruce Wayne but this time it was full of anger and pain instead of sorrow.  The criminal snarled something and the Caped Crusader didn’t wait to find out what was going to happen.

            Taking two steps to his right, Batman threw the Bat-a-rang perfectly, missing the boy’s head and knocking the gun out of the man’s hand.  His eyes widened in amazement when the kid immediately sprinted toward the muscular man, flew into a front handspring and executed a flawless front layout that landed him on the criminal’s shoulders.  The Caped Crusader was also impressed with the swing up that gave the boy extra power behind the punches that were now flying around the man’s head.

            But the kid’s ribs were injured – it had only been two nights since Joker had attacked him and his torso had probably taken a least a little beating tonight.  The criminal slammed his large fists into the boy’s sides and the small body went limp.  It was too late for the man, though, as he fell backwards and hit his head on the hard surface of the street.

            The momentum of the fall tossed the young boy off the man’s shoulders and he landed in a heap on the sidewalk that was four feet away.  Batman sprinted toward the scene as the girl and her parents ran away as fast as they could.

            None of the criminals were moving so Batman passed by without a second glance.  The boy was groaning softly, his eyes were squeezed shut and his arms were wrapped around his small, trembling torso.  Batman quietly knelt by his side and patiently waited for him to open his eyes.

* * *

            Robin felt himself flying.  The sidewalk rose up to meet him and he shut his eyes in anticipation of the hard landing.  He kept his head curled into his chest, saving himself from slipping into unconsciousness when he hit the ground.

            Something was groaning.  No, not something, him.  Robin shakily wrapped both arms around his ribcage, trying to put out the intense fire dancing in his chest.  A light breeze drifted across his face and he sensed someone near him.  Who had been able to get up already?

            The young crime-fighter opened his eyes, expecting to see the angry glare of an injured criminal.  Instead, through hazy vision, Robin recognized the dark head of Batman.  There was no way he could escape this time.  The man was right beside him and Robin decided that he couldn’t move anyway.

            “Hi,” Batman said quietly.  He stared into a pair of pain-filled, light-blue eyes and waited for a response.

            “Sor…ry,” Robin whispered, assuming he had angered the man by interfering in the fight.  “It’s just that you, um, were already fighting…” he trailed off, exhausted.  A wave of pain rolled around his torso and he clenched his jaw to avoid screaming in front of _Batman_.

            “You saved that family,” the Caped Crusader stated.  He heard guilt in the boy’s tone and wondered why it was there.  “I probably wouldn’t have made it down here in time.”

            The only response was a clenched jaw and a wheezing gasp of air.

            “Can I help you?  I have a friend who’s pretty good at taking care of injuries.”

            Robin hesitated then whispered, “No, I got it, thanks.  I’m just, uh, going to rest for a minute so, um, you can go.  I’ll be okay.”  Every syllable was outlined in agony and the eleven-year-old was pretty sure he sounded like an idiot. 

            “Are you sure?  He’s had a lot of practice; I get hurt all the time.”

            That comment caused a slight smirk.  “Right,” the boy said somewhat sarcastically.  “You’re Batman!  You’re a…a super hero!”

            “That doesn’t mean I don’t get hurt.  I had to wrap my torso the other night because somebody,” Batman paused and searched the boy’s eyes carefully before continuing, “cracked one of my ribs.”

            Robin’s eyes widened and regret swam through the blue circles.  “I didn’t mean…you weren’t supposed…I can’t let…”  The sentence wouldn’t completely form and Robin felt like cotton balls were being stuffed in his mouth.

            “You’re severely injured,” Batman said.  “I saw Joker break a rib the other night and your eyes are going in and out of focus.  You probably have at least a mild concussion.”

            “Just…I’m fine,” Robin whispered.  He forced himself to stand up, pushing Batman’s arms away when they attempted to support him.

            “Thanks for the pep talk,” Robin said as he turned around.  He staggered dizzily toward the alley across the street and disappeared into the shadows.

            “Not going to happen, kiddo,” the Caped Crusader declared softly.  He waited thirty seconds and then began to follow.

* * *

**Sixteen minutes later:**

            Apparently the boy knew he was being followed.  Batman had been tailing him from a good distance and he realized that they had just made a complete circle around the main section of Crime Alley.  The kid was smart, observant and stubborn.  Why didn’t he want Batman to help him?

            “Can you just leave already?” a weary voice whispered from above.

            Batman looked up in surprise.  The boy was sitting on the first landing of a metal fire escape.  How…?

            “You looked down, I jumped up,” Robin stated, answering the unasked question.  “I’m really tired so, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home without being followed around like a criminal.  Please,” he added as an afterthought.

            “I’m just concerned,” Batman replied.  “Look at yourself.  You’re slumped against a metal staircase, fatigue loudly expressing itself through every inch of your body, and your breathing is an unhealthy wheezing sound.”

            “I can take care of myself,” Robin said, the tone slightly defensive.  “I don’t have a bunch of cool weapons or muscular arms or an awesome uniform but I’ve been doing this for a while and I’m fine on my own.”

            The statement had taken the rest of his reserves and he closed his eyes against the pain.  He started to drift off but slapped himself hard on the right cheek.  A fire escape in the middle of Crime Alley was not a good place to go to sleep, especially since he was still “the boy in the mask”.

            “At least tell me your name.”

            Robin thought for a minute.  Was there any possible way that Batman could figure out his real identity if he knew his crime-fighting name?  He didn’t know anything about the Batcave, he didn’t even know there was such a place, so he had no idea that there were powerful machines just waiting to receive and give information.  Gotham City, a place he had never even heard of until he was ten, had only been his home for a year.

            “If I tell you, will you leave?” Robin asked.

            “Yes,” Batman replied.  _For tonight, anyway._  

            The boy slid down the railing of the fire escape, landing with a wince and a grimace. 

            “Robin,” he whispered softly then whirled around and raced away.

            “Robin,” Batman repeated, astonished that the kid could still run.  They were in Crime Alley, though, and running was usually how one traveled in this section of the city.

            Turning in the opposite direction, Batman strode toward the Batmobile.  He finally had a starting point – a name.

_Robin._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments cattyk8 and FMarie! :)

** Chapter 6: **

**The Batcave – early morning:**

            “Good morning, Master Batman,” Alfred stated cheerily as he entered the Batcave.  “Did you go to bed or have you been up all night?”

            “Up,” Batman replied grumpily.  He was sitting on the chair in front of the Bat-computer, staring listlessly at the machine and drumming his fingers on top of the table.

            “What’s wrong, sir?”

            “Robin.”

            “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.  Are you having a feud with a bird?”

            “The boy, his name is Robin.”

            “He told you his _name_?!”  Alfred was surprised, given the fact that, so far, the boy had been obviously reluctant to have any contact with Batman.

            “He was injured, I offered to help, he declined and left, I followed, he knew I was tailing so I said I would leave if he told me his name.”

            “How injured, sir?” Alfred inquired, concern manifesting itself in his voice.

            “I know the one rib was already broken from Joker.  But you should have seen him, Alfred.  He was curled in a little ball, as if his entire torso was on fire, he was wheezing and gasping, he could barely talk!  Then he just stood up and left, as if everything was fine!  I waited thirty seconds before following but he _knew_ , Alfred!  He _knew_ I was behind him so he took me on a sixteen minute loop of Crime Alley!  Then, after whispering his name, he raced away so fast that anyone watching would have thought he was completely uninjured!”

            The butler was speechless.  How did a _child_ go from lying practically helpless in the street to running away in less than twenty minutes?

            “He looked to be nine, maybe ten,” Batman continued.  “But his uniform….  Alfred, he was wearing _tights_ and tennis shoes and some sort of dark-red top with a yellow patch over his heart.  And his mask – it was a tiny strip of black material that barely covered his eyes.  They’re blue, by the way.  A brilliant, distinct hue of blue that is dulled by whatever pain he’s carrying around with him.”

            “Broken ribs, sir?”

            “No, I mean, yes, of course his ribs.  But his eyes were full of both pain and grief.  When I went to Crime Alley as Bruce Wayne I could feel sorrow radiating off his entire body, Alfred.  Whatever happened to cause that…” Batman trailed off as an image of the expressive eyes manifested itself in his mind.

            “You seem to have a lot of useful information, sir.  Why did you sound so frustrated earlier?”

            “Because that’s it!  All I have is a name and the description I just gave you.  Who is he?!  I put ‘Robin’ in the Bat-computer and received all sorts of information about birds, feathered birds that fly around and sing!”

            “It seems, sir,” Alfred began wisely, “that he is as paranoid about protecting his identity as you are about yours.”

            “And another important question,” Batman continued as if his butler hadn’t even spoken.  “Why would his parents allow him to go out and fight criminals, _especially_ when he’s so injured?!  Maybe they don’t even know, but how could they _not_ know?!”

            The Caped Crusader abruptly stood up and threw his arms in the air.  “HOW DO I FIND OUT?!” he yelled, startling Alfred.

            _BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

            “Yes, Commissioner?” the hero growled into the Batphone.  “The Archer a _nd_ The Minstrel?”  There was a short pause then Batman stated, “I agree, there is a chance that they could be working together.  I’m on my way.”  Sighing, he shook his head in frustration as he hung up the Batphone.

            “So the kid, Robin, goes on the back burner again,” Batman grumbled.  “Alfred, if anything other than information about birds comes out of the Bat-computer, I want to know right away!”

            “Yes, Master Batman, of course,” the faithful butler replied dutifully.

            “Thanks,” the Caped Crusader whispered wearily.  Climbing into the Batmobile, he started the engine and sped out of the Batcave.

            “And thank _you_ , sir, for that information,” Alfred declared quietly.  The sly butler had slipped a tracking device onto a Bat-a-rang.  Hopefully it was one that Batman had used in the general vicinity of the boy – Robin.

* * *

**Six hours earlier:**

            Robin waited in the shadows until Batman disappeared.  Then he waited until he heard the distinctive roar of the Batmobile fade away into silence.  Then he counted to one thousand, as he usually did when he wanted to be sure he was safe.

            Sighing gratefully when he finally said the last number, the young crime-fighter left the safety of the shadows in the alley behind the bakery.  The bread had been left out tonight so he had been able to snack while waiting for Batman to leave.

            He wanted to go straight home but Robin also wanted to examine whatever it was that Batman had thrown to knock the gun out of Bear’s hand.  It was a difficult choice, he was so tired, but the weapon could be useful.  Especially if it was something reusable.

            So, silently and doing his best to appear confident, Robin strode back to the main street.  Bear, Bull and the leader were still unconscious but had been secured with those cool cuffs and some rope.  He walked over and tugged at the ropes.  The knots were tight and the rope was strong.  Robin wished he had some of the awesome gadgets that Batman used.

            Stepping over the motionless bodies made him gasp.  The movement stretched his ribs, which were still throbbing horribly, and he almost dropped to his knees.  But weakness was like a death sentence in Crime Alley.  And Robin was a crime-fighter, not a weakling.

            The small black weapon, whatever it was called, was lying underneath the right hip of Bear.  Using his foot, the boy carefully slid it out from under the limp body then bent down and picked it up.  It was hard, sharp, smooth and shaped, unsurprisingly, like a bat.  Robin grinned as he started for home.  Maybe he could figure out how to copy it and make some of his own.

            Fourteen agonizingly slow minutes later, he walked in his front door.  He could let down his guard now so he wrapped an arm around his torso and gingerly made his way to the shelf.  Carefully placing the unknown weapon on the wood, Robin grabbed his notebook, stumbled toward his bed and sat down.  The adrenaline was gone and he knew sleep would not be easy.  Everything hurt: his entire ribcage, an enormous headache, even the soles of his feet where his shoes were beginning to wear out.  Leaning against the rough wall, the eleven-year-old crime-fighter began to write.

* * *

Monday, March 29

            I saw Batman again today.  Actually, I met him.  He saved a little girl that I was trying to save.  That kind of sucked but at least she’s okay.  I mean, I wanted to prove myself to him but the bad guy had a gun that was two inches away from her head.  How am I supposed to compete with that?!

            Batman had some sort of cool weapon that sliced the gun right out of the criminal’s hand.  I picked it up on the way home.  It’s awesome and I hope I can make some of my own; it doesn’t look too difficult to construct.  Of course, it’s Batman’s weapon so maybe it’s impossible to duplicate.

            There was another cracking sound, on my left side this time.  I’m pretty sure I have at least two broken ribs, although it feels like all of them have shattered.  Batman met me at my weakest moment.  Of course that’s how it would happen.  He couldn’t see me when I’m flipping my way around a bad guy or standing over an unconscious criminal.  Nope, I was curled in a ball on the sidewalk, like a little baby!

            He did offer to help me, said he had a friend who was good at fixing injuries.  I actually thought about accepting but decided that keeping my identity safe was more important than allowing a stranger to help.  I’ll just have to figure it out on my own again.

            Then he tried to follow me.  I’ve been in Crime Alley long enough to know when I have a shadow but I think he was surprised that I knew.  I’m pretty sure he wanted to find out where I live but I got him to leave by telling him my name.  My crime-fighter name, I mean.

            Anyway, I’m going to wrap up my ribs again because I’ll probably have to go out tomorrow.  It was a huge gang fight tonight and I can’t let that happen anymore.  I can’t afford a night off to heal so I’ll just have to be more careful when I fight.  I don’t know if I can, though, since I fight with my entire body….

* * *

**The Batcave – present time:**

            Luck was with Alfred; Batman had used the Bat-a-rang with the tracker and, for some unknown reason, had neglected to retrieve it.  The butler checked the Bat-tracker activity sheet from last night and smiled.  The Bat-a-rang had slowly moved away from Crime Alley and was now stationary just north of that area.  Hopefully that was the boy’s location, not a villain-filled hideout, because Alfred was going to take a trip.

            The Alf-cycle was entirely unsuitable for this mission so the butler decided to use Bruce Wayne’s midnight-blue Corvette.  Batman was currently out chasing villains and Alfred knew that Bruce had several important Wayne Foundation meetings to attend later in the day.  The millionaire wouldn’t be back until early evening, giving Alfred at least eight hours to travel to and from his destination.

            _Robin_.

            What an interesting name for a young crime-fighter.  Of course, Alfred had raised a man who ran around at night dressed like a bat.  A bird might not be as scary-looking but from the way Batman had described his fighting, Robin was more than capable of instilling fear into the minds of criminals.

            “Well, Robin, let’s see if we can find your home.  An old butler who is lost won’t be suspicious at all if you happen to be there.”

* * *

**Crime Alley – noon:**

            Robin was eating lunch in the shadows of the top steps of the theater.  This was his favorite spot; he was unrecognizable and had a quick get-away path around the corner.  Every move, every breath, was excruciating but he had to eat.  The two small slices of bread had been his best meal yesterday.  He needed fuel for tonight – fuel that came in the shape of a hot dog draped with ketchup from one of those little packages that came with a meal at the small diner down the street.  There had even been an unopened, individual size bag of chips in the dumpster behind the diner.  That was very unusual and a fantastic surprise.

* * *

**Robin’s house – noon:**

            Alfred stared in astonishment at the crumbling shacks.  Was _this_ where Robin was living?!  Quietly, he walked slowly around the entire building, carefully peering into each small crack he could find.  Luck was with him again – the boy wasn’t home.

            The butler walked through the front door, if it could even be called that.  It was held in place by just the upper hinge and would probably fall down soon.  He gasped in dismay; the room was almost completely bare!  The Bat-a-rang was the first thing he saw, sitting in the middle of the only sturdy thing in the room – a long, dusty shelf.  It took him two steps to get there and he noticed several very light, circular imprints.

            To his right, on the floor, was a sort-of bed.  There was a thin sleeping bag with several small holes and a large, rough blanket.  Two rats scuttled away when Alfred turned his attention to the sink in front of him.  It was a rusty piece of metal, about to fall apart like almost everything else in the shack.  Then he saw it.  On the wall just above the sink was a giant clue: a large, slightly faded poster of The Flying Graysons.

            Alfred walked to the poster, staring at the graceful bodies that practically flew off the paper.  Someone, possibly Robin, had drawn a nearly invisible tiny person in the lower right hand corner.  The person was looking up at the duo of aerialists and there were obvious tears dripping onto the floor.

            Was…could it be?  Was Robin actually Richard Grayson?  Alfred was in shock and briefly thought about how impossible the idea sounded.  How could a ten-year-old aerialist become a strong crime-fighter in only a year?!

            The youngest member of The Flying Graysons was an acrobat, just like his parents, which made him both athletic and light on his feet.  Those were the exact characteristics that Batman had described when speaking of the child’s fighting style.  Perhaps the idea wasn’t so impossible after all.  But why hadn’t the boy returned to the circus after running away?  What had made him stay and choose this particular path?

            Shaking his head, the butler saw an image of a young Bruce Wayne, vowing to make sure that what had happened to his parents would never happen to anyone else.  Apparently, young Richard Grayson had chosen the same career.  But this…the boy was living in squalor!  How was he eating enough to be able to fight hardened criminals night after night?

            There was an old, ratty notebook resting on top of a small pile of fabric in the sink.  Alfred, without thinking, picked it up and opened the cover.

            “Today is my eleventh birthday…My name is Richard John Grayson…”

            Absolute proof.  Tears filled Alfred’s eyes as he silently closed the obvious journal.  The poor boy, living alone in a dump like this for so long.  Nobody to talk to, nobody to help him…and he was only eleven! 

            Alfred carefully returned the journal to its place on the material in the sink.  He turned around, walked out the door and climbed into the Corvette.  Batman was going to receive information, but not from the Bat-computer.

            “I’ll be back, Robin…Richard,” the old man whispered, his tone filled with sympathy.  A tiny tear slid away from his left eye and Alfred wiped it away with his right forefinger.

            “I will find some way to help you, even if you think you don’t need it.”

* * *

**The Batcave – seven hours later:**

            Alfred was somewhat nervous, although he wasn’t quite sure why.  All he was going to do was tell Batman the information the hero had been searching for with no success.

            “Alfred,” Batman said loudly.  Startled, the butler looked over at Batman, who was sitting in front of the Bat-computer again.

            “Yes, sir?”

            “What’s going on?  You’ve been especially quiet, your thoughts are obviously elsewhere and I’ve been calling your name for the last thirty seconds.”

            “You have, sir?” Alfred stated, shocked that he hadn’t heard his name.

            “Come on,” Batman sighed, “out with it.”

            There was a long pause and Batman almost rolled his eyes.  What was Alfred afraid to tell him?

            “I know who he is, sir!” the butler suddenly exclaimed and Batman jumped to his feet.  His jaw dropped open in shock and his eyes widened in disbelief.

            “ _WHAT?!_ ” the hero shouted.  “How…?  When…?”

            “I’ll go into the ‘how’ and ‘when’ details later, sir.  You might want to sit back down.”

            The Caped Crusader reluctantly obeyed and Alfred sighed softly before beginning to speak.

            “The most important piece of information, sir, is that Robin is actually Richard Grayson, son of the famous aerialists The Flying Graysons.”

            There was a long beat of dead silence and then Batman whispered incredulously, “You’re joking.”

            “Would I joke about something like this, sir?”

            “It makes sense, I guess,” the hero stated, pondering the idea out loud.  “He’s athletic and acrobatic, he’s smart and careful.  But why didn’t he leave with the circus?”

            “You’ll have to ask him that, sir, if you can ever get him to trust you.  There is something else, however.”

            Alfred described Robin’s living conditions and Batman’s eyes widened again.

            “He’s thin, that’s for sure, but still incredibly strong.  There was no food, anywhere?  And he’s sleeping on the _floor_?!”

            “I saw nothing but some light, circular imprints that could have been left by cans of food when they were stored on the shelf, sir.  There is not even a mattress, Master Batman; he is sleeping on the floor.  On the rusted sink there was a notebook that I opened, inadvertently discovering that it was his journal.  The fifth sentence begins with the words ‘My name is Richard John Grayson…’.  I have no doubt, sir, that the book belongs to the boy who has been fighting in Crime Alley nearly every night.”

            “He’s all alone,” Batman growled softly, his voice outlined with frustration.  “This whole time, he’s been alone.  _WHY DIDN’T I KNOW THIS?_ ” he suddenly roared, the question reverberating loudly around the Batcave. 

            “As you said, sir, he’s smart and careful,” Alfred began.

            “Why didn’t he go to the commissioner?”  The hero was glaring at his butler, demanding a response.

            Sighing – it was, after all, a question that young Richard Grayson should be answering – the older man replied, “If your parents had died in an unfamiliar city and you were all alone, sir, would _you_ have gone to see a complete stranger?”

            “No,” the younger man murmured thoughtfully.  Standing up again, Batman began pacing.

            “There has to be _something_ we can do!” he exclaimed after a brief pause.

            “I believe there is, sir.”

            The Caped Crusader stopped pacing and stared at his butler expectantly.

            “Get him to trust you, sir.  Stop following him, stop trying to get information from him, don’t offer help until he comes to you.  This needs to be on his terms, sir, otherwise you might never be allowed to help.”

            “Can we at least take some things to his…shack?”

            “Then he would know that someone has figured it out, sir.”

            “But his injuries, his _ribs_!”

            “He now knows that you patrol in Crime Alley, sir.  If and when the pain becomes too much, he will reach out to you, I’m sure of that.”

            “Alfred, I can’t – _we_ can’t – wait for that!  He could _die_ before he decides to trust me!”

            “Place a few Bat-cameras around Crime Alley, sir, in strategic yet invisible places.  We need some there anyway.  I will monitor him from here, just as I do you.  If anything happens that could result in his death, I’ll communicate it to you.”

            “He’s so injured, Alfred, that any major hit to the ribs could result in his death!  You didn’t see him, it was bad.  And if he doesn’t know how to take care of his injuries, he could be in his shack dying right now!”

            Dipping his head in deference, the butler replied, “It is, of course, your decision, sir.  I will abide by your wishes, no matter what you decide.”

            “Maybe I’ll put a Bat-camera in his…living place,” Batman stated as he folded his arms across his chest.  “Then we will know for sure if he’s dying.”

            “First of all, sir, that is a huge invasion of his privacy.  Second, there is no place in that shabby room to hide a Bat-camera; he would immediately see it.  And when that happens, Master Batman, you will most likely lose him forever.”

            “We’ll lose him forever if he _dies_ , Alfred!” the hero exclaimed heatedly.

            “Again, sir, it is your decision.  Please forgive me if I have overstepped my boundaries.”

            Batman removed his cowl and hurled it across the room in frustration.  Running both hands through his hair, the man flopped onto the nearest chair and sighed loudly.

            “You’ll figure it out, sir,” Alfred stated before turning away.  “You always do.”

            The butler walked over to the Bat-camera monitors and flipped them on in preparation for a night of careful observation throughout Gotham City.  Everywhere except Crime Alley, where dangerous villains resided and a young boy barely existed.

* * *

**Crime Alley:**

            Robin crouched in the shadows between the two air conditioning units of a tall building.  It was the same spot that Batman had occupied several nights ago, although Robin didn’t know that.  After what had happened last night, with the gangs and Batman, everything had been quiet.  Nobody was out, not even the usual mug-and-run criminals.

            Boring nights usually frustrated Robin but tonight he was grateful.  The fabric was wrapped around his ribs, although he knew it would throw him off.  But the pain had been too intense when he had tried to remove the material.

            A small movement on the roof of the building next door caught his eye and Robin slowly turned his head.  There was a man pacing and talking loudly.  Batman was the only person that the young crime-fighter knew of who would be on top of a building.  But this man was too skinny to be Batman and, instead of a cowl-covered head, his hair was sticking out wildly in random places.

            Suddenly the person grabbed his torso and started cackling quietly.  Robin frowned; it was the same crazy laughter from the night he had rescued Batman.  But he knew that villain had been arrested so how was he out of prison already?  It had only been a few days since the incident!

            Another movement caught the boy’s eyes and he looked down at the street below.  Two average-looking men were strolling down the sidewalk, seemingly paying no attention to anything around them.  A flash of light made Robin realize that one had a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist.  Something important was foolishly being carried through Crime Alley late at night and the villain probably knew the contents of the case.

            Robin was startled when the man on the roof unexpectedly disappeared.  He understood why twenty seconds later, when the villain exited the ground floor of the building and raced after the men.  A combination of a groan and a growl softly floated out of Robin’s mouth.  Whatever was in the case needed to be protected, along with the two men, but this villain was the most dangerous man that the boy had ever met.  And Robin couldn’t use his full abilities to fight him.  At least the guy didn’t have a weapon, that he could see, anyway.

            It was Robin’s turn to disappear off the roof and exit the ground floor twenty seconds later.  The villain had already caught up to the men and was prancing around them, his hair flopping wildly and his arms flailing around.  Robin never used weapons but he grabbed the nearest object he could see.  It was a short stick of wood and the irony of the situation didn’t escape the boy’s notice.

            “Just hand it over and I’ll let you gooooo!” the dancing villain shouted in a sing-song voice.  “No need for violence, I detest the very word!” he exclaimed with a wicked grin.

            One man was muscular and the other, the one carrying the briefcase, was small.  The bigger man kept shifting around, apparently attempting to find a way to completely shield his partner.   

            Robin had been slinking in and out of the shadows, unnoticed by any of the men.  He was now in the alley directly next to the soon-to-be victims and a plan formed in his mind.  The villain was still circling the pair of men.  When he was on the far side of the larger man, Robin stepped out and grabbed the smaller man’s arm.

            “Run,” he whispered as he pulled him into the shadows.  The guy didn’t hesitate; he raced away down the alley and turned left at the end.  Robin quickly took the place of the man with the briefcase and lifted the wood so he was holding it like a baseball bat.

            Joker made it around the large man and stopped short, shock on his face.  The kid he had seen a few nights ago, the one whose _rib_ he had broken, was swinging something solid toward his head!  And the man with the briefcase was nowhere to be seen!

            “Brat,” he growled as he threw his arm up to block the weapon.  Pain shot through the limb but Joker ignored the feeling.

            The muscular man took advantage of the distraction and swung a large fist at the villain’s face.  It connected and blood spurted from the felon’s nose.

            “Idiot!” Joker screeched as he pushed his hands against the wound.

            Taking that as his cue to leave, the big man looked at Robin, shrugged his shoulders and took off.  Robin’s eyes widened in surprise as he watched the man run away.  He had assumed that the guy would help, not flee!

            This time it was Joker who took advantage of the distraction.  His hands were occupied with stopping the blood flowing down his chin but his legs were free.  The villain picked up his deceptively strong right leg and kicked out as hard as he could.  The large foot slammed directly into the young crime-fighter’s ribcage and Robin dropped to his knees.  The stick of wood fell from his hands and he wrapped both arms around his torso, gasping in pain.

            The kick connected with his head this time and the pointy end of Joker’s shoe dug a short but deep crevice in Robin’s forehead.  The boy was shoved backwards and he landed hard on the street, the momentum causing his head to bounce off the asphalt.

            “Until next time, brat,” Joker growled before turning around and striding away.  He wanted to stay and finish the job but needed to take care of his nose.

            Robin was frantically trying to bring air into his lungs but it wasn’t working.  His vision, already blurry from the hits to both his ribs and his head, was darkening and he was ready to slip into the blackened world of unconsciousness.  But he heard soft footsteps and knew that some criminal had probably seen what had happened and was coming to finish what the villain had started.

            “Come on, kid,” an old voice whispered.  “I’ll get you out of the street but I can’t do it without your help.  Get up!” the man demanded quietly.

            The young crime-fighter couldn’t see anything now but decided to trust the slightly familiar voice.  He slowly rolled to his stomach, pushed his palms against the ground and shakily made it to his feet.  A trembling hand grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the shadows from which he had first entered the action.

            “This is where I leave,” the voice whispered as he dropped Robin’s arm.  The soft footsteps quickly faded and the eleven-year-old boy collapsed.  Blood was streaming from the open wound on his forehead and he knew he had to get out of Crime Alley immediately.

            The closest place was the border; home was in the opposite direction and Robin was sure he wouldn’t make it there.  But the border had all kinds of places where he could rest without having to worry about being attacked.  His vision had gone from black to hazy and Robin decided he could get there.

            “Where is he?” a deep voice growled as heavy footsteps pounded on the sidewalk to his right.  “The boy in the mask, where is he?”

            “I…I’m not sure,” the shaking voice of the man who had helped Robin was full of fear.

            There was a loud thud and a quiet groan.

            “Then I’ll teach you a lesson instead.”

            “Stop!” Robin yelled from his position on the ground just around the corner.  He wasn’t going to let the old guy take a beating for him.

            A short, fat man immediately appeared and grinned down at the boy.  The grin was full of evil and Robin squeezed his eyes shut in preparation to receive more pain.  A foot kicked out at his chin, snapping his head back against the wall.  Two strong hands grabbed his shoulders and lifted him off the ground.  Robin’s entire body was slammed against the wall this time and his eyes popped open.

            This was a fight and Robin had trained his body to react to a fight.  Bringing his legs up between his body and that of the criminal, the boy pushed his feet against the man’s chest and shoved him back.  Surprise filled the eyes of the man as he dropped Robin, stumbled back and hit the wall on the other side of the narrow alley.

            Adrenaline was flowing through his body, lessening but not overpowering the pain.  Robin had landed on his feet and he kicked his right leg out.  This time it was the criminal’s head that snapped against the wall behind him.  The man’s body instantly became limp and dropped to the ground.  Turning away from the street, Robin began stumbling his way toward the connecting alley that would take him to the border.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that a 'deep crevice' cannot be the result of a kick to the forehead, since the skull is right up against the skin. However, for purposes of this story, please pretend that it can. Thanks! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who gave kudos! :)

** Chapter 7: **

**The Batcave:**

            Alfred gasped and grabbed the Bat-communicator.  Robin had just appeared on the screen that was showing the feed from a camera by the border of Crime Alley.  The boy was hunched over and stumbling and the butler could see a steady stream of liquid falling from his head.  Either he was unusually sweaty on this rather cool night or he was bleeding profusely.  The butler was almost certain that it was the latter.

            “Pick up, sir, come on, pick up!” he whispered frantically.

            Batman wasn’t responding and Alfred watched in dismay as Robin disappeared behind a gas station.  Would he stay there or find somewhere else?  Why wasn’t Batman answering?!

            “What do you need?”  Batman’s voice came through the static and Alfred allowed himself a quick sigh of relief.

            “Robin, sir, the boy!  He’s at the border of Crime Alley and he looks extremely injured!”  The words practically flew out of Alfred’s mouth and, on the other end of the Bat-communicator, Batman’s eyes narrowed.

            “Where?” the hero demanded and the butler gave him the location of the gas station.

            “On my way,” Batman said shortly and abruptly cut off the communication.

            “Batcave out, sir, and find him quickly,” Alfred whispered.

* * *

            Batman was fighting three of Penguin’s goons when his Bat-communicator started beeping.  Ignoring the distraction, he finished off the henchmen and slapped his Bat-cuffs around the wrists of the villain.

            Snatching his Bat-communicator out of his utility belt, and a little annoyed at the interruption, he asked, “What do you need?”  But the feeling fled, his face darkened and his eyes narrowed when his butler told him what he had seen on the border of Crime Alley.

            “On my way,” he replied shortly.  Shoving his Bat-communicator back into his utility belt, the Caped Crusader raced out the door of the old, abandoned fish store and jumped into the Batmobile.

            “I knew he was going to get himself killed,” the hero grumbled but his tone was full of concern instead of anger.  He was on the other side of town, twenty-two miles away from the border of Crime Alley, and the kid could already be _dead_.

            “Hang on, kiddo,” he whispered as the Batmobile roared to life.  Batman broke almost every single traffic law on his way across the city but it was two o’clock in the morning and nobody was around to get hurt by his recklessness.

            Twenty minutes later the Caped Crusader slammed to a stop across the street from the gas station where Alfred had seen Robin.  Quickly climbing out, he sprinted toward the back of the convenience store, hoping to find an injured kid instead of a dead body.

            Rounding the corner, Batman stopped short.  Robin was six feet away, lying on his side with his back against the wall.  His body was curled into a tight ball and the Caped Crusader could hear the gasps that accompany the pain of breathing through broken ribs.

            “Hey, Robin,” he whispered and the boy flinched.  Robin immediately uncurled, placed his palms flat against the ground and pushed himself up to standing.  He leaned against the wall; the only thing Batman could see was a silhouette.

            “Either go back to whatever hole you crawled out of,” the boy snarled, “or come at me like a man.  A broken nose shouldn’t stop a villain from attempting to take out a _kid_.”

            Villain?  Broken nose?  Batman sighed – who had escaped this time?

            “I’m Batman, kiddo,” the Caped Crusader replied softly and the boy released a short, scornful laugh.

            “And I’m millionaire Bruce Wayne,” he replied sarcastically.  “You’re an idiot and a coward.  Let’s finish what we started so you can go back to prison.”

            Robin stepped away from the wall and into the light, swaying like a small branch in a heavy wind.  Batman’s eyes widened, both shock and concern racing through them, when he saw the boy’s condition.

            Blood was streaming from Robin’s forehead and had spread across his entire face, making him look like a vampire who had just enjoyed a large meal.  There were several dark bruises on his arms, visible even in the sickly, yellow glow from the lights of the gas station.  His eyes were blinking rapidly and the hero could tell that Robin was struggling to stay awake.  Batman could see the irregular bulge under the boy’s red top and wondered if that was from Joker or last night or tonight or all three.

            “Are you coming or not?” Robin suddenly growled.  Without waiting for an answer, he threw himself into a round-off, intending to shove his feet through the man’s face at the end of the subsequent back handspring.  Instead of a full back handspring, however, Robin’s arms gave out and he crumpled to the ground when his hands hit the gravel.  The boy’s face hit the dirt, followed by his torso, and he grunted in pain.

            Batman didn’t hesitate this time.  It took him two long strides to cover the distance between them.  The boy was breathing but unconscious when the man scooped him up and strode back to the Batmobile.

            The Caped Crusader settled Robin into the passenger seat, buckled the safety Bat-belt then went around to his side and climbed in.  Picking up the Batphone extension, he pushed the button to call Alfred.

            “Did you find him, sir?” Alfred asked, trepidation in his tone.  The child had looked like he was about to drop dead and the butler didn’t want to hear that sentence come out of Batman’s mouth.

            “Yes and he’s in bad shape, really bad shape.  Blood everywhere, broken ribs, an obvious concussion and unconscious,” Batman replied quickly.

            “I’ll prep the medical area, sir.  I assume you’re bringing him here?”  There was no answer and Alfred replaced the receiver on the Batphone.  At least the boy – Robin or Richard or whatever other name he used – was alive.

* * *

            Something was restraining him; the villain was back.  Robin began struggling, knowing he needed to take the crazy guy down.  He was failing the citizens of Crime Alley and it would be his fault if someone died tonight.  An annoyingly loud voice was making noises and Robin knew they were words but he couldn’t make sense of them.

            “Relax, Robin, I’m taking you somewhere safe.  My friend is going to fix you up and then you can be on your way.”

            Batman was calmly trying to reason with the boy but he could tell that nothing was registering in Robin’s brain.  At least the kid was exhausted enough that his struggles ceased after less than a minute.

            It had taken only ten minutes to drive to the Batcave.  The Caped Crusader had pushed the Batmobile past its limit and broken _every_ traffic law this time.  Robin, this brave, young, strong boy, needed immediate medical attention so red lights and speed limit signs weren’t important.

            Climbing out of the Batmobile, Batman strode quickly to the passenger side, unbuckled the safety Bat-belt and gently lifted Robin off the seat.  The boy began to struggle again and a startled Batman nearly dropped him.

            Robin’s eyes abruptly flipped open and he swung his left arm up.  The small fist weakly smacked Batman on his nose, making it tingle without doing any damage.

            “Robin!” Batman shouted at him and the boy widened his cloudy eyes.  “I’m Batman and I’m trying to help you!”

            Confusion slid across his face as the boy tried to process the sentence.  It was something about Robin and Batman.  Wait, he was Robin so was the dark man above him Batman?

            “Where?” Robin suddenly snapped, trying to fill his voice with anger.

            “My place, the Batcave,” Batman replied, his voice calm.

            There was a long moment of silence and the hero laid the child on a medical table.

            “Batman?” the boy whispered, confusion still on his face and wrapped around the word.

            “Yes, kiddo.”

            “NO!” Robin shouted as he hastily tried to sit up.  He couldn’t allow Batman to find out anything.  And he was in Batman’s _house_ , trapped and at the mercy of the powerful crime-fighter!  Was the man going to take his mask, make him reveal his identity?

            “Relax,” Batman repeated.  “You’re only going to be here long enough for my friend to patch you up.  Then, if you want to, you can leave and I promise I won’t follow you.”

            “You…you’re not going to try to find out where I live?”  Robin was puzzled at the man’s sudden change in behavior.

            “You have an identity to protect,” the Caped Crusader replied softly.  “I will never force you to reveal yourself unless your life is being threatened because of it.”

            Abruptly changing the subject, Robin asked, “Why are you helping me?  Nobody ever helps me.  Well, except the grocer and baker, once in a while.  They sometimes leave out…”

            The boy suddenly slapped a hand across his mouth.  He was talking too much, he realized, and anything he said could be used to discover his identity.

            Batman wanted to glance at Alfred but forced himself to remain focused on Robin.  The end of the sentence was easy to fill in – they sometimes left out food.  So that’s how the boy was eating, living off any little extra thing that a brave citizen would leave out for him.  That was a surprise to both men because Robin’s comment was true – nobody ever helped anyone else in Crime Alley.

            “We’re helping you because, right now, it’s difficult for you to help yourself,” Batman answered the question.  Robin’s eyes narrowed and Batman sighed.

            “You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, I know.  However, I also know that your vision is blurry, your ribs are burning and you probably don’t even realize that blood is covering your face.  Therefore, we’re helping you because we have the medical knowledge necessary to patch you up.  That’s something you don’t seem to have.  Yet.”

            “Almost done, young sir,” Alfred declared as he finished the last stitch on the boy’s forehead.  “May I have a look at your chin?”

            Robin suddenly realized that a sticky liquid was all over his cheeks, nose and chin.  Another liquid was sliding off his forehead.  The young crime-fighter hadn’t noticed that the masked, white-haired man had been fixing the deep cut on his forehead after cleaning the wound with water.  He didn’t even have a chance to answer the old man’s question because his chin was already being poked and prodded.

            “Just a bruise, young sir, that can be quickly healed with a pack of Bat-ice.”  Alfred walked away and ten seconds later he was back with a small package of ice.

            “Bat-ice?” Robin stated with disbelief in his tone.  “This looks like regular ice to me.”

            “Yes, it does,” Batman agreed.  “However,” he explained, “Bat-ice reduces swelling and lightens bruises much quicker than any pack of normal ice.”

            “Okaaaaay,” the boy drew out the word skeptically.

            “Regardless of what you think, young sir, please leave your hand here,” Alfred put Robin’s hand under the pack of Bat-ice that was resting against his chin, “so it can do its job.”

            Alfred picked up a small Bat-towel that he had already soaked in warm water.  Carefully, he wiped away the blood that was covering the majority of Robin’s face.  Replacing the wet Bat-towel with a dry one, the butler gently patted the young features then dropped both cloths in the basket by his side.  Robin obediently held the Bat-ice against his chin the entire time as he stared at the concerned face of the white-haired man.

            “Time to sit up?” Batman inquired and Alfred nodded.  Batman slid his left hand under the boy’s small shoulder blades and, trying to be as gentle as possible, pushed him up.

            Robin began gasping and wheezing, his eyes tightened into little clumps of eyelashes and his entire body began trembling.  The pack of Bat-ice dropped to the ground but nobody noticed – the boy was trying to stay awake and the men were yelling at him to breathe.

            “I think we’ll have to cut it off, sir,” Alfred whispered over the top of Robin’s head.  Batman nodded, opened the top drawer on his left and reached for the Bat-scissors.

            “ _NO_!” the eleven-year-old unexpectedly shouted.  His eyes flew open and he shoved three hands away from his body while unsteadily sliding off the table. 

            “My tunic does _not_ get cut.  _EVER_!” he yelled sharply.  His hands had clenched into fists and his formerly-trembling body was now tense with anger.  The men stared at him in surprise and Robin dropped his head.

            “Sorry,” he mumbled regretfully.  “I…it’s just…I can’t tell you why but just don’t.  Please.”

            A few drops of liquid splashed to the ground and Batman looked at Alfred with understanding in his eyes.  Alfred nodded: the tunic was from the circus.  It was probably part of his costume or something special that his parents had given him.

            “Just pull it off,” Robin whispered.  “I can deal with it.”  Squishing his eyes together again, the young crime-fighter held his breath and raised his arms.

            The two men instantly jumped into action.  The red material was quickly pulled over the boy’s head and they stared at what was obviously a green leotard.  So the kid was wearing sheer tights, a leotard and a thin tunic.  How had he survived the winter?!

            Robin’s eyes were open now and he was attempting to slide the straps of his leotard off his shoulders.  He was still holding his breath, his face was turning red, and Batman swiftly pulled the straps over the thin shoulders and down the small arms.  The boy exhaled loudly and slumped over, almost passing out.  Robin would have fallen to the ground if Batman hadn’t been standing right in front of him.

            Alfred stared at the torn, thin material that was sloppily wrapped around Robin’s midsection.  The boy obviously had no idea what he was supposed to do with one broken rib, much less three. 

            “Perhaps some Bat-sleep would be helpful, sir,” Alfred commented quietly.  Batman nodded and silently slipped the can of Bat-sleep out of his utility belt.

            “Wha’ tha’?” Robin mumbled.  He knew something was going to happen and he knew it would probably make him vulnerable to an attack.  But the question and thoughts faded away as Batman sprayed a soft mist in the boy’s face.

            “I can’t let him go home like this, Alfred,” Batman growled as he sat Robin up on the medical table and held him straight.

            The butler unwrapped the old fabric and both men glared at the sight in dismay.  A dark-blue bruise covered the boy’s entire torso, there was a large bump on the right side of his ribcage and a tiny one on the left.

            “What are you going to do, sir, keep spraying him with Bat-sleep until he is completely healed?”

            “Of course not, I…but look at him!  He shouldn’t even be allowed to leave a bed!  If I let him go, he’s just going to go out again and increase the severity of his injuries!”

            “You already told him, sir, that he would be allowed to leave after we patch him up…”

            “That was before I saw _this_!” Batman interrupted loudly while gesturing to the small, battered torso.

            “If you break your word, sir,” Alfred continued calmly, “he will never learn to trust you.”  The butler finished adjusting the boy’s ribs and began swathing them in Bat-wrap.

            “If I looked like this when I was eleven, would you have allowed me to go out and fight crime?”

            “We aren’t talking about you, Master Batman,” Alfred skillfully avoided the question.  “You knew how to fight and take care of yourself before beginning to travel this path.  He has nothing, nobody and only knows how to trust himself.  Right now, he is the one person he can depend on.  Not you, not me and certainly not any officers of the Gotham City Police Department.  Can you imagine, sir, what Commissioner Gordon would say if he knew there was a _child_ fighting criminals in the worst section of the city?  What he would _do_?”

            “Orphanage or foster care or something similar,” Batman mused and Alfred nodded.

            “We would be taking everything from him: his purpose, his obvious drive to make his parents proud, his loyalty to their memories.  Everything, sir.”

            “But he’ll get himself killed, Alfred! _I_ can battle through the pain of three broken ribs but his fighting style is much different!  It requires the flexibility of his entire body, especially his torso!  And he’s taking on hardened criminals night after night – men that don’t let up once they know a person’s weakness!”

            “Offer to watch Crime Alley for him, sir.  I think the only reason he came out during that gang fight was because he knew something excessively violent was happening.  The one night he stayed home was the night of the ‘bloodbath’, as you called it.  Do you think, sir, that he was willing to let that happen again?”

            “So you think,” Batman began incredulously, “that he will stay home for a couple of nights if I _offer to help him_?!  Didn’t you just tell me that I shouldn’t offer help unless he came to me?”

            “Perhaps offer was the wrong word.  You’ll figure it out, sir.  You always do.”

            Alfred completed wrapping Robin’s ribs and Batman re-dressed the boy before laying him back on the table.

            “Can I at least let him sleep for a little while?” the hero asked as he covered the young crime-fighter with a blanket.

            “Why are you asking me, sir?” Alfred replied with a slight smile.  “You brought him home, he’s your responsibility.”

            With a quiet chuckle, the faithful butler walked to the service elevator and returned to Wayne Manor.  He had some research to do and the absence of both Bruce Wayne and Batman was critical to his objective.

            Batman glared at Alfred’s retreating back for a moment.  Then his eyes turned thoughtful and he glanced down at the boy.  Reaching over the table and grabbing the still-wet Bat-towel that Alfred had used earlier, the Caped Crusader gently began scrubbing the drying blood out of Robin’s dark hair.

* * *

**Several hours later:**

            Robin stirred, groaned softly and Batman jumped to his feet.  The Caped Crusader was dozing in a chair he had brought over to the medical area.  But if Robin was waking up, Batman couldn’t let the boy see that either of them had been sleeping for a while.

            “Where…” Robin mumbled groggily as his eyelids fluttered.

            “The Batcave, with Batman,” the hero replied quietly.

            “How…”

            “I brought you here in the Batmobile,” he stated a little louder.

            “When…”

            “A few hours ago.  You were in pretty bad shape and needed he…” Batman abruptly changed the end of the sentence, “…to be fixed up.”

            “Why?”

            Batman paused – why what?  Why did Robin need to be fixed up?  Why did Batman decide to do the fixing?

            “Why do you want to help me so much?”

            That wasn’t what the Caped Crusader had expected.  He had been ready to launch into the short version of what had happened but apparently Robin either remembered or didn’t care to know.

            “I’m not worth helping, you know,” Robin suddenly whispered as his eyes slid open.  “I’m not going to grow up to be some rich, big-shot businessman or famous lawyer or anyone important.  I’m just going to fight bad guys until I can’t do it anymore and then I’ll just die.”

            “You don’t have to be rich or famous to be worthy of help, Robin.  But there must be something you want to do or be when you grow up.”

            Robin was staring at nothing and Batman recognized the same wistful look that he used to have when he thought about what life could have been like had his parents not been murdered.  A thin film of liquid skated through the light-blue eyes and the small chin trembled slightly.  The Caped Crusader watched a single tear escape the fabric of the mask and leave a trail of sorrow on the young cheek.

            “Nope!” the boy unexpectedly shouted.  “All I’ve ever wanted to do is fight bad guys.  Keep the streets clean for kids, so they can all grow up in nice homes with good parents and have tons of fun.”

            Batman almost tried to dig deeper but remembered Alfred’s words of warning and let it go instead.  Robin would eventually tell him everything; he just had to be patient.

            “Can I go now?  I mean, thanks for the help and everything but I need to get home.  Don’t want my family to start worrying.”  The last sentence was accompanied by a half-hearted grin as Robin struggled to sit up.

            “You have family to take care of you?” Batman asked in surprise.  Alfred had told him that Richard Grayson appeared to be living alone.

            “I have family to _live_ with but I wouldn’t say they ‘take care of me’.  I’m usually the one helping them.” 

            The boy had made it to sitting and was now sliding off the table.  He swayed slightly but brushed it off, hoping Batman hadn’t noticed.  The Caped Crusader, of course, noticed _everything_ but this was something else that he chose to let go.

            “Um, how far away from Crime Alley are we?”

            “Pretty far, almost twenty-three miles.”

            “Oh,” Robin dropped his eyes to the floor.  Twenty-three miles was a long way to walk!

            “You don’t think I’m expecting you to _walk_ there, do you?” Batman asked in disbelief when he saw a tinge of discouragement flash across Robin’s features.

            “Well, you’ve already done a lot and I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have.  So, if you could just point me in the right direction…?” he trailed off as he lifted his head.

            Shaking his head, Batman strode to the Batmobile and opened the passenger door.

            “This is the right direction,” he stated, pointing to the cushioned seat.  “You’re not walking, especially not in your condition.”  The sentence was more of a command than a statement and the independent boy wasn’t going to allow anyone to order him around.

            “My ‘condition’?” Robin almost growled.  “I’m perfectly capable of walking!”

            “All I meant,” Batman sighed, “was that you’re injured and riding in the Batmobile will give you some extra time to rest.”

            This time it was Robin who sighed.  “Sorry, again,” he said.  “I’m not used to people being willing to help me.  Like I said, I’m not worth it so it makes me feel like a…burden.”  The last word was whispered and outlined with shame.

            “Robin, if I thought you were a burden, I wouldn’t have brought you here.  You needed fixing, my friend and I have the knowledge to do so and we just wanted to help.”

            Tears suddenly filled the light-blue eyes and instantly rushed over the lids.  Robin couldn’t stop them from streaming down his face so he dropped his head into his hands.  He was being such a weakling!  His father wouldn’t be _crying_ in front of a man he barely knew!

            Batman was stunned.  What had he said to make the boy break down?!  He didn’t know what to do and wished Alfred was here.  The butler would know how to fix this.

            “What’s wrong, young sir?” Alfred asked gently as he entered the Batcave with his usual impeccable timing.  He received no response so he slowly walked over to join the boy at the medical table.  Glancing at Batman, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged, the butler quietly crouched in front of the child.  Robin’s face was completely covered by his hands; the only things Alfred could see were the tears glistening in the lights of the Batcave as they dripped onto the floor.

            “Are you in pain, young sir?”  There was no reply so Alfred stood up and lightly rested his left hand on the boy’s right shoulder.

            The touch made Robin shudder and he immediately stepped away from the butler.

            “I’m fine, sorry, I’m fine,” Robin stated.  He lifted his head and attempted to wipe all the evidence of weakness off his face.  Alfred smiled softly and handed the boy a tissue.

            “Thanks,” Robin mumbled.  He almost ran to the Batmobile, where Batman was still holding the passenger door open, and quickly climbed inside.

            “I’ll ride, if you don’t mind,” he whispered, staring at his feet under the glove box.

            “Okay,” Batman replied with both confusion and relief in the tone.  He shut the door, glanced at Alfred in concern then strode to his side of the vehicle and climbed in.

* * *

**Fifteen minutes later:**

            The Batmobile slowly coasted to a stop across from the border of Crime Alley.  Robin quickly pushed the door open and climbed out.

            “Thanks again,” he mumbled, his eyes on the sidewalk.  “Maybe I’ll, um, see you later.”

            The comment had a slight questioning tone and Batman smiled.

            “I…” the hero began but Robin had already vanished into the shadows.

            “How…?”

            Shaking his head, Batman turned the Batmobile around and headed for the Batcave.  The grin stayed on his face – Robin had just given him a tiny amount of hope.  Perhaps the boy would begin to trust him sooner than the man and his butler had anticipated.

* * *

            Robin slowly made his way home, flattening himself against every wall and peering around every corner.  Sixteen exhausting minutes later he stepped through the door.  He took off his mask, crumpled it into a tight ball and threw it across the room, wincing at the pain that flared up as a result of the motion.

            “Idiot,” he mumbled.  “Allowing yourself to be captured, even by a hero, is the worst thing you could ever do.  You don’t even deserve to _be_ Robin!”

            He began pacing around the room, muttering insults at himself while trying to form a plan.  Accidentally telling Batman and his friend about the grocer and the baker had been a gigantic, inexcusable mistake.  They would probably talk to the man and woman, who would probably tell them _why_ they left food in the back alleyways.

            The young crime-fighter knew that several people had seen him looking through dumpsters while dressed as Robin.  Sometimes dinner had to wait until after he had thwarted the plan of a criminal or gang.  And sometimes normal, law-abiding citizens were still awake at two or three o’clock in the morning.  Getting in and out of tall dumpsters wasn’t always easy and Robin had, more than once, been much louder than usual.

            Sighing, he grabbed his notebook and carefully sat down on his rough bed.  He was in too much pain to go to sleep and it was nearly morning anyway.

* * *

Wednesday, March 31 – I think…

            It finally happened.  Batman caught me and I couldn’t do anything to stop him.  I got taken down by some villain then hit a couple of times by a thug and barely made it over the border of Crime Alley.  Something happened behind a building, I don’t remember anything except laying down to rest, and when I woke up I was in Batman’s house or…I think he called it a Batcave?

            Anyway, his friend really does know how to “patch someone up”, as they called it.  There was a pretty deep cut on my forehead, from the villain’s pointy shoe, but the man somehow fixed it.  I don’t have a mirror or anything so I don’t know what it looks like but when I touch it there’s no open wound.

            Batman has this thing called “Bat-ice” that he says works better than normal ice.  I don’t know if I believe that – it looked like a pack of regular ice to me.  They fixed my ribs, too.  There’s no huge bump anymore, the wrapping is much better than anything I’ve done and I can breathe without pain.  Moving around still hurts but at least I can breathe.

            Oh, yeah, another stupid thing.  I started crying, in front of BATMAN!  What kind of weak little baby starts sobbing into his hands while standing in front of an actual hero?!  But he was just being so helpful and acting like I mattered.  Acting…?  I don’t know, maybe he was just pitying me.

            It was the first time, since THAT day, that anyone has ever actually helped me.  The food from the grocer and baker is helpful but it’s just food.  But they, Batman and his friend, talked to me and fixed me and he drove me back to Crime Alley in the Batmobile – the most awesome car ever!

            I’m tired…………..


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for commenting FMarie! And thanks to those who gave kudos. :)

** Chapter 8: **

**The Batcave – late afternoon:**

            “There is nothing, _anywhere_ , that says Richard Grayson never returned to the circus!” Batman stated loudly.  “Why wouldn’t they send the word out, let people know so they could look for him?!”

            The Caped Crusader was sitting at the Bat-computer with papers both on the table and on the floor surrounding the machine.  Inputting the name ‘Richard Grayson’ had given him more information about The Flying Graysons than he needed.  There were newspaper articles, magazine articles, even a short children’s book about the aerialists.  But nowhere was there even a brief comment about the disappearance of the youngest member of the act after his parents’ death.

            Why would the circus cover it up?  Had they ever even found him after he had run away that night?  Did they just decide that he wasn’t worth finding?  He was, after all, the last living Flying Grayson and wouldn’t be able to do a performance by himself.  But leaving a _ten-year-old_ to fend for himself in a strange city?! 

            “Sir?” Alfred’s quiet voice drew the hero out of his thoughts.

            “He said he wasn’t worth it,” Batman suddenly whispered.  “They just _left_ him here, Alfred!  No wonder he thinks he doesn’t matter!” 

            “How do you know…” the butler began but was immediately interrupted.

            “He told me,” Batman replied.  “When you were up in the Manor, he asked me why I was helping him so much.  Then he said he wasn’t worth helping.”

            Alfred gasped in both sympathy and dismay.  “That poor child!” he murmured.

            “Why would they LEAVE HIM?!  It was the only home he had ever known!”

            “I don’t know, sir, but I do know that we have to make sure he knows that he is no longer on his own.”

            “How?”

            “I don’t know, sir,” Alfred repeated.  “I really don’t know.”

* * *

**Abandoned warehouse by the abandoned circus grounds – western outskirts of Gotham:**

            Joker was pacing.  After bandaging his bloody nose, and finding out with relief that it wasn’t broken, the villain had decided that the kid needed to be taken out for good.  The pacing was helping him plan and he already knew several important things.

            First, the kid showed up when there was real trouble.  He had been there when Batman had been captured in Joker’s fool-proof trap – although it had turned out to be not so fool-proof because of the _kid_.  Somehow, he had known about the diamonds, worth _millions_ of dollars, being carried through Crime Alley in the middle of the night.  And Joker had heard about the large gang party that Batman had also attended.

            So, the boy probably wouldn’t show up for a simple mugging or drug exchange.  It had to be something huge and noisy and dangerous.  Like a bomb in downtown Gotham in the middle of the day.  Or a violent bank robbery on a Friday, when most people received their wages and went to deposit them in a bank.

            Second, the boy was a decent fighter.  He wasn’t as strong as The Bat, of course, but he had done some pretty impressive things.  Joker didn’t know if the boy had any actual training but, if not, he had natural talent.

            Third, Batman didn’t know him.  The surprise in the eyes of the Caped Crusader when the boy showed up made that obvious.  Not knowing The Bat meant not being trained by The Bat.  So, if he _did_ have training, it hadn’t come from the nearly-unbeatable Batman.

            Finally, he was a kid.  Children were naïve and vulnerable and impressionable, especially those as young as the boy.  Eight, maybe nine?  The exact age didn’t really matter; all kids were gullible because of their innocence.  But, was the boy really that innocent?  He was, after all, fighting criminals in his spare time.

            An idea suddenly popped into the villain’s brain.  Maybe he could convince the boy to _join_ him instead of _fight_ him!  He could be a valuable asset, once he was properly trained, and Batman wouldn’t want to hurt a kid!  Joker would send him after the Caped Crusader and the man wouldn’t do anything to stop the boy.  What a delightfully evil way to get revenge!

            That would be his first choice.  Before killing the kid, Joker would give him the chance to save himself by becoming the villain’s sidekick.  Then, if he didn’t agree, the boy’s death would be his own fault and Batman would have no reason to take it out on Joker!

            Now all he needed was a way to get the kid to come to him….

* * *

**Robin’s house:**

            The usually bright, afternoon sunlight was muted by the gray clouds that littered the sky over Gotham City.  A storm was brewing, both outside and inside a group of three crumbling shacks.  Robin had decided to move and was swiftly packing.  Staying in Crime Alley was too dangerous now, since Batman knew about the grocer and baker.  Home would be farther away but keeping his secret safe would be worth the travel time.

            Everything had been bundled up into the large blanket again.  The only thing he left was the weapon sitting on the shelf.  If Batman began asking around in Crime Alley, eventually the trail would end up here.  So, Robin was leaving the bat-shaped thing for its original owner to find.  He wasn’t a thief but he also wasn’t going to try to find Batman in order to return it.  A short note was shoved behind the weapon and then the young crime-fighter picked up the heavy blanket.

            Robin glanced around one last time.  The shack had been good to him, providing shelter, a family – even if they were just rats – and a sleeping bag.  It had been hot in the summer and cold in the winter but he was alive because he had somewhere to live.

            Walking out the door, the eleven-year-old strode to the old tree.  He touched the bark and ran a finger down one of the streaks of dried blood from his hands.  That made him look down at his knuckles – the scabs had been gone for a while but there were faint outlines of scars where he had torn the skin off night after night.  Using the tree as a practice dummy hadn’t been the smartest idea but the lack of anything else made it necessary. 

            “Thanks for the help,” Robin whispered to the tree as he lightly patted the trunk.  This was where he had created and practiced tricks, where he had figured out how to use his body as a weapon.

            Turning away when he felt a warm mist in his eyes, Robin began walking south.  He was _not_ going to cry about a stupid old tree.  South was toward Crime Alley but Robin knew a place a few miles west of the southern border.  There had to be _something_ left that would provide shelter.

* * *

**The Batcave – ten o’clock at night:**

            “I’m going, Alfred, and nothing you can say will stop me!”

            “I’m not trying to stop you, sir, you are old enough to make your own decisions.  I’m merely attempting to remind you that he does not fully trust you and going to his…living quarters…will undoubtedly push him away.”

            “He practically asked if we could meet up again!”

            “No, sir, he did not.  He told you that he might see you later.  _He_ might see _you_ , not _you_ might find _him_.”

            Batman threw his hands in the air and strode away from his faithful butler.  A slight frown slid across the older man’s face but he immediately erased it.

            “He’s coming back with me, Alfred, whether he wants to or not.  I’m not giving him a choice, he’s too injured to fight.”

            “As you wish, sir.  Please do not take your anger out on me, however, when he fights _you_ in order to escape.  Fighting, Master Batman, is fighting, no matter the combatants.”

            Growling angrily at that astute observation, Batman climbed into the Batmobile and roared away.  Alfred had made an excellent point but Robin was going to return to the Batcave, even if Batman had to knock him out to get him there.

* * *

**Seventeen minutes later:**

            There they were, the old, crumbling shacks that Alfred had described.  Batman parked the Batmobile nearly fifty yards away, hoping that the element of surprise would work to his advantage.  After climbing out, he quietly covered the distance in less than twenty seconds, pulling up short when he was five yards away.

            The Caped Crusader thought he had a pretty good picture of Robin’s living situation but discovered that he had been way off.  It was worse than Alfred’s detailed description.  The door was no longer hanging by a hinge, it had completely fallen off.  One of the walls had collapsed, leaving a hole the size of Batman himself.  The shelter that was protecting Robin from the elements had decreased dramatically.

            The boy wasn’t home, Batman could see the entire room thanks to the hole, so the hero walked through the entrance.  There was the Bat-a-rang on the shelf that Alfred had told him about and…nothing else.  No sleeping bag, no journal or pile of fabric in the rusty sink, not even any rats!  The only evidence Robin had left was a large, rectangular outline on the north wall that was less dirty than the rest of the walls.  That must have been his poster of The Flying Graysons.

            Batman sighed in frustration.  Alfred had been right; Robin wasn’t even close to trusting the Caped Crusader.  The boy was intelligent and knew he had given away too much information when he had mentioned the grocer and baker.  So, obviously, he had decided to move.  But where would he go?  And why did he leave the Bat-a-rang, a valuable weapon?

            It took him two short strides to get to the shelf and the hero immediately noticed the tracker on the inside edge of the left wing.  How had he missed it when he had pulled the Bat-a-rang out of his utility belt?!  Would he have thrown the weapon if he had seen the tracker?  Probably not.  Luck and an unusual lack of observation had allowed them to find the boy.  A slip of paper floated away when Batman grabbed the Bat-a-rang.  Snatching it out of the air, he straightened out the wrinkled sheet and read it:

            Sorry I took your bat-shaped weapon.  I thought it was cool and I wanted to see if I could make some of my own.  But I’m not a thief and I should have returned it right away.  I hope you’re not too angry with me.  Please don’t try to find me anymore.  It’s bad enough having to hide from criminals who want to repay me for their numerous injuries.  I don’t need the world’s greatest detective on my trail, too.  I’m not worth the time it will take for you to find me; you have an entire city to protect.  I’ll be fine on my own.  Thanks for the help you and your friend gave me.  And thanks for not making me tell you who I am, and for letting me go.  Maybe someday we’ll cross paths again, when I save you from another trap….

            Batman could practically see a smirk at the end of the last sentence.  He had only seen it on the boy’s face once but it was memorable.  Carefully folding the sheet of paper, he slid it into the front pocket of his utility belt and turned around.

            “I’ll find you again, Robin,” he promised loudly as he strode out the door.  “You’re more than worth it, kiddo.”

* * *

**Abandoned warehouse by the abandoned circus grounds – western outskirts of Gotham - midnight:**

            “This is stupid,” a man whined to his companions.  “Why can’t we just rob the bank right now?”

            “Because, you idiot, the boss says we have to wait until Friday!  There will be more money, people get paid!” a second man replied.

            “Will you guys shut it?!” a third man yelled.  “I’m tryin’ ta sleep!”

            “That is not the proper way of asking,” the final man in the group stated.  “What are you asking them to shut?  ‘It’ can represent anything in here.”

            “’It’ will be you if you don’t stop talking with that ridiculous accent,” the second man snarled.

            “You’re just jealous because I’m classy and you three are rough and tumble street rats.”

            “I’ll show you what a ‘street rat’ does to a ‘classy’ fella like yourself if you continue to annoy me!  Now all of you _SHUT UP_ so I can sleep!”

            The four men were wearing identical outfits – black pants with a light-green, long-sleeve shirt.  A short word was printed across each chest in dark purple letters.  The first one, Chiste, was tall and muscular, with jet-black hair and a baby face.  The second, Scherzo, was short and squat but deceptively strong.  His hair was the color of carrots and his jawline was completely covered by a wild, scruffy beard.  The third was Gracejo, a shrewd-eyed, short-tempered, blonde-haired man built like a fireplug.  The final one was Jest – tall and thin with hazel eyes, a small button nose and a light-brown, well-groomed goatee.

            “But won’t Batman be expecting us to hit a bank on a payday?” Chiste muttered, keeping his voice low.  He was strong but Gracejo was quicker and could take any of the other men down in a matter of minutes.

            “I don’t know,” Scherzo muttered back.  “It’s just what the boss ordered.”

            “I’m sure he has a plan to defeat Batman,” Jest stated loudly, his tone condescending and his haughty expression full of both arrogance and scorn.  “He is, after all, one of Gotham City’s most brilliant villains.”

            “This is the last time I’m gonna say it,” Gracejo growled from his makeshift bed.  “The next person to speak gets an old-fashioned knuckle sandwich!”

            “Good,” a young voice replied from the door on the other side of the room, “because I’m starving!”

* * *

**Twenty minutes earlier:**

            Robin, after leaving Crime Alley, had retraced his steps from a year ago.  The path led him to the small forest behind the old circus grounds, where he had hidden on the night of his parents’ death.  He stopped at the edge of the trees and placed his bundle on the ground, staring in shock at the sight before him.

            They had left the trailer.  Mr. Haly had packed up his entire circus and moved on except for the small trailer belonging to The Flying Graysons.  Several different emotions swelled in Robin’s chest, the strongest being betrayal.  Apparently not even the trailer was worth their time and effort.

            Anger took over and Robin sprinted to his former home.  He jumped over the small steps, flung the door open and flipped up the switch on the battery-powered lamp right beside him.  Everything was just as he had left it, except for a layer of dust and five or six large cobwebs.  The pants from his performance costume were still lying crumpled on his bed, the shining sequins faded and falling off, and a small mouse was curled up on the elastic waist band.  Glancing left, he noticed another difference – a pale yellow envelope on his mother’s pillow.  It took him two steps to get there and he stared at the familiar, graceful handwriting of Leona, wife of Wilhelm the lion tamer.  There were three words: Richard John Grayson.

            He glared at the envelope for a full minute before picking it up and opening it.  There was a single sheet of white paper, about half of which was filled with the recognizable swirls of Leona’s cursive.  The other half was made up of a small map with four tiny circles.

            Dick: We don’t want to leave you but we have searched the entire surrounding area and found no clues that could lead us to you.  We fear you are either lost or dead.  We are leaving your family’s trailer, your home, in case you are alive and can make it back here.  This map shows where we will be stopping, we stay in each area for one month.  After the fourth month, we are going to Europe, where our performances will begin in Paris and go south to Rome, stopping in several smaller cities on the way.  Hopefully, someday, you will find your way back to us.  If not, please forgive us for not staying.  Harry and I waited here for two more days after the circus pulled out but you didn’t return.  We, your circus family, will always love you and know you will grow up to be as sensitive as your mother and as strong as your father.  If you are reading this you are alive so…stay safe, little one.

            Robin gently folded the paper and returned it to the envelope.  Tears filled his blue eyes and he sank to his knees by his parents’ bed.  He should have come back; he shouldn’t have even run away!  The envelope fell to the floor as the young boy crossed his arms on the soft mattress, laid his forehead on his arms and began sobbing quietly.

            After three minutes the sobs became silent tears and two minutes after that he was beginning to wipe the moisture off his face.  It was too late to find the rest of the circus but at least he had a place to stay.

            Shaking his head in sorrow, Robin picked up the envelope, slowly pushed himself to standing and walked out of the trailer, flipping the light switch down as he passed the lamp.  He made it to the trees and tucked the letter into the safety of his knotted blanket.  Just as he was about to lift his bundle, a loud ‘bang’ assaulted his ears from the direction of a large, metal building that was about fifty yards away.  Light suddenly burst into the darkness of the night but immediately disappeared.

            The boy decided to investigate.  The building looked as abandoned as the trailer and the rest of the circus grounds so whatever was going on in there probably wasn’t legal.  Or, at least, leading up to something that wasn’t legal.  He was currently dressed in his regular, quickly-wearing-out clothes but his tunic, leotard and tights were always on underneath.  Slipping his shirt over his head and pulling off his jeans was slightly painful but easily ignored.  Quickly grabbing his mask from the bundle of supplies, he tied it around his head and raced toward the building.

            The door wasn’t completely shut and the crack of an opening was big enough for Robin to walk inside.  However, he needed to assess the situation first, so he crouched by the thin stream of light shining out of the building and listened carefully.

            Men, four of them if Robin was separating the voices correctly, were arguing loudly.  The eleven-year-old didn’t catch every word but what he heard was enough.

            “…rob the bank…Friday…tryin’ ta sleep…street rats…SHUT UP…defeat Batman…brilliant villains…”

            At the last word, Robin stood up and stepped through the door without making a sound.

            “The next person to speak gets an old-fashioned knuckle sandwich!”

            Folding his arms across his chest, Robin stood up as tall as he could and declared, “Good, because I’m starving!”

            Four pairs of surprised eyes stared at him.  Then one of the men, who was lying on a crate using his jacket as a pillow, began to laugh.

            “Come on then, little kid, it’s time to eat!”

            Gracejo jumped to his feet and Robin narrowed his eyes.  The man wasn’t the largest one in the room but he was muscular and carried his weight well.  Carefully studying his opponent’s movements, Robin decided that going high would work better because the man’s legs were like small tree trunks.  He wouldn’t fall easily unless his center of gravity was thrown off.  And the best way to throw off a person’s center, Robin knew, was to force the body to twist around itself with no warning.

            Taking two short, quick steps forward, Robin threw himself into a round-off followed by two quick back handsprings and a high back tuck.  His calculations of the distance between himself and the man were perfect, as was his timing.  The flip took him over Gracejo’s head as the thug turned around and swung a large fist toward the boy’s upper body. 

            But Robin had already rotated past where the hit was aimed and he kicked out hard, slamming both feet into the thick neck of Gracejo.  The man, off-balance from the rapid turn-around, couldn’t adjust his feet in time.  His head snapped back as Robin pushed off and he immediately fell to the ground.  Robin arched out of the flip, piked his legs down and easily landed in a crouch.  Without hesitation, the boy stood up, raced to the man’s side and finished him off with a swift kick to the side of the head.

            “Next?” he asked with a smirk.  He folded his arms across his chest again to both support his already-throbbing ribs and attempt to look intimidating.

            Jest suddenly ran straight past Robin and out the door without looking back.  The smirk turned into a grin but Robin was secretly wishing it had been one of the stronger ones instead.  One less criminal, however, was one less fight.

            Chiste and Scherzo glared at the young crime-fighter.  Eliminating Gracejo so easily was impressive but the kid had taken their companion by surprise.

            “Flank him?” Chiste whispered as he glanced to his left.  Scherzo, his older brother, nodded.  They had done this many times and completely trusted each other.  Separating themselves, Chiste strolled toward Robin’s left side while Scherzo went right.

            Of all the criminals he had faced in the past year, only Bull and Bear had been smart enough to attack together.  Robin was suddenly nervous as the memory of how _that_ had turned out entered his mind.

_Pay attention to both sides, don’t allow traps, don’t trust obvious clues, protect ribs._

            Bull and Bear had closed in on him, leaving him no room for tricks, so Robin feinted toward Chiste, who stopped walking.  He did the same thing toward Scherzo, with the same result.  Robin was now exactly between the men, with about six feet of space on each side.  He wasn’t sure which way he should go, or even if he should attack first.

            Scherzo suddenly rushed at him and Robin quickly dove into a front handspring.  Immediately rebounding into a back handspring, the boy shoved his feet into the side of the man’s torso right as he stopped in Robin’s former position.  Scherzo grunted and folded in slightly but was aware enough to throw a strong fist, which connected solidly with the back of the boy’s head.

            Robin stumbled forward and automatically tucked into a forward roll.  Popping up to his feet, he turned around into an uppercut from Chiste.  This time he folded into a backward roll, spitting blood out of his mouth as he stood up again.  The young crime-fighter could feel stickiness on the back of his head but didn’t have time to check the severity of the wound.

            There were four men striding toward him now and Robin, not realizing he was seeing double, was confused.  How did two other men get here so quickly and why hadn’t he seen them before?  The questions fled as Scherzo went low with a leg sweep and Chiste went high with a right hook.  Robin jumped over the sweep and was able to execute a sloppy backflip that made the hit miss his chin by four inches.  But the men were quick and by the time he landed they were already upon him again.

            A large fist whipped Robin’s head over his right shoulder as a meaty hand shoved itself into his ribcage.  His ears were ringing and his ribs were burning and, as he stumbled backwards again, Robin thought that maybe he should run from this one.  But his father was not a coward and Leona had written that Dick Grayson could grow up to be as strong as his father.  So, instead of taking his own good advice and running, Robin threw himself into a painful back handspring.  The crate that Gracejo had been lying on was right behind him and the boy had noticed the formation of several other crates. 

            Another sloppy backflip followed the handspring and he landed on the lowest crate.  Chiste growled and ran at the boy with a fist pulled back and ready to fly.  Robin, hoping his tired legs had enough energy, jumped up.  His hands just barely caught the top edge of the crate that was five feet above him and his ribs protested the stretch.  Survival, however, was his main goal so the pain was blocked out as Robin struggled to pull himself onto the crate.  Immediately standing up, he jumped left to the crate farthest away from the door he had entered.  The landing was unsteady but he was two boxes higher than Chiste, who was still running towards him.

            Chiste had easily followed the boy’s movements.  He slammed his body into Robin’s tower of boxes, ready to knock the kid into oblivion when he fell off the top crate.  Grinning slightly in relief – the guy had taken the bait – the boy jumped into a front flip as the man’s momentum stalled.  Just like he had in the first fight Batman had seen, Robin landed hard on Chiste’s upper back.  The man grunted and tumbled to the ground with the tower of crates.  The young crime-fighter thought that the criminal was probably unconscious but turned around and kicked him in the back of the head, just to be sure.

            “That’s my little _BROTHER_!” Scherzo roared and Robin wearily turned around.

            A loud drum was pounding in his left ear and the boy was sure that all the fixing Batman’s friend had done was now un-fixed.  But there was one more guy and Robin didn’t really have a choice.

            “Do you like having a brother?” the boy whispered, fatigue evident in his tone.  He was attempting to stall and also hoping that a conversation would cause the man to lower his guard.

            The question surprised Scherzo.  Why would this kid ask something like that?  His eyes suddenly lit up – the boy didn’t have anyone to back him up if he got in too deep.

            “Yes,” the man replied with a devious grin.  “He’s smart and he’s always got my back.  You don’t have anyone to watch your back, do you?” he sneered.

            Robin’s eyes turned thoughtful.  If he allowed him to, maybe Batman would be willing to watch his back.  But then Batman would want information that Robin wasn’t ready to give.  Besides, the hero was busy enough taking care of an entire city.  He didn’t need another back to watch, even if it was a small one, especially since Robin could take care of himself.

            “Maybe someday, but not right now,” the boy replied with a shrug.  His ribcage objected to the movement and Robin flinched slightly. 

            The muscular man burst into loud laughter and the young crime-fighter wanted to cover his ears.  The noise wasn’t helping his pounding headache.

            “You’re bloody, your eyes are unfocused, you’re panting _and_ you don’t have backup!” Scherzo scoffed, the statement full of both amusement and confidence.  “Admit it, kid – you’re screwed.  My strong little bro won’t be out for long and I’ll just keep you occupied until he can get up.”

            “Then do it,” Robin demanded defiantly.  “Let’s see how long you can keep me occupied.”

            Scherzo was right, though.  Robin was having difficulty breathing, the man was blurry and the boy could feel blood running down his left cheek.  He vaguely remembered feeling a sticky substance on the back of his head, also, and wondered how much blood he could lose before he would pass out.

            Robin hadn’t been paying attention to the fact that the man was slowly moving closer.  Suddenly the criminal was in his face again and the eleven-year-old, with his almost-nonexistent energy and slower-than-normal reflexes, couldn’t react in time.  Scherzo’s powerful uppercut connected with Robin’s chin, snapping his head back, and he collapsed on top of Chiste’s motionless form.

            “Get off my brother,” Scherzo demanded quietly.  He grabbed Robin by the hair and tossed him across the room.  The boy landed on his right side, two yards away from the door.  This time he felt instead of heard the cracking of his rib.

            It was unfortunate, Robin mused dazedly, that he could now recognize the feeling without having to hear it or even think about it.  Loud footsteps were pounding toward him and, with an exhausted sigh, the boy decided to go to sleep.  Closing his eyes, he saw an image of Batman fighting eight large men.  Batman was a real hero and Robin was just a former aerialist running around in a stupid mask and pretending that he could protect at least a small part of Gotham City.

            Two large hands wrapped themselves around his neck and lifted him into the air.  Robin mentally shrugged – he couldn’t breathe through his broken ribs anyway so the lack of air didn’t really affect him.  But then he was slammed into a wall, hard, and muscle memory took over.  Adrenaline rushed in and Robin opened his eyes, lifted his arms, wrapped them around the arms of his opponent and scratched at the bearded face.

            His nails caught both skin and hair and Robin was suddenly lying on the floor.  From somewhere deep inside him, extra strength came to his aid and he slowly stood up.  Scherzo’s hands were pressed tightly against his face, blood trickling through his fingers and tears of pain threatening to drip over his lower eyelids.

            Robin kicked his right foot into the man’s stomach as hard as he could which, at the moment, was not at all hard.  Growling, Scherzo tightly grabbed the boy’s ankle with his left hand while leaving his right hand on his face.

            “Thanks,” Robin whispered groggily, grateful that the criminal was unknowingly stabilizing him.  He jumped off his left foot and swung it into the side of Scherzo’s head.  The man dropped the boy’s ankle and shook his head to rid it of the slight spike of pain.

            Robin used his momentum to twist his body around and land shakily on both feet.  Turning to face the wall, he planted his hands and jumped, kicking out as soon as he was off the ground.  His feet hit something hard, he heard a loud ‘thud’ and this time Robin landed on his knees.  Exhausted and in a large amount of pain, the boy rolled to his left and sat down with his back against the wall. 

            “Your little bro isn’t awake yet,” he whispered to the man who was now unconscious on the ground.  Blood was running down Scherzo’s left cheek, a product of the broken nose Robin had managed to give him.

_Headache, throat throbbing, ribs broken, bloody head, sore right ankle._

            Robin went through the list of his injuries and was surprised that he was still awake.  He sagged against the wall and closed his eyes.  There was a moaning sound from across the room and the boy’s eyes popped open. 

            Fear – no, panic – raced through him and Robin unsteadily stood up again.  It was time to get out of here, the faster the better.  The door was three yards away and the boy stumbled toward it, almost tripping over himself as he shuffled through the opening.  Wrapping both arms around his torso, he curved in toward his chest and staggered to the safety of the shadowy forest.            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought the goons' names were a little cheesy, they were supposed to be! Chiste, Scherzo and Gracejo are, respectively, Spanish, Italian and Portuguese for "joke". How witty of me, right? (insert eye-rolling emoji). ;-)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for commenting FMarie!

** Chapter 9: **

**The Batcave:**

            Batman, after wandering around Crime Alley for an hour, had returned to the Batcave to do some research.  The man was sure that the boy would stay near the area he was protecting; the Caped Crusader just had to find a place where Robin could take shelter.  Crime Alley had several abandoned buildings but most of them were occasionally used as criminal hideouts.  The young crime-fighter would know that and wouldn’t choose to stay in one of them.  That would be dangerous and the boy wasn’t an idiot.

            “I thought he was coming back with you, Master Batman,” Alfred stated, his words clipped but his tone politely formal.  He was not happy with his charge but he was still the man’s butler.

            “He’s gone, the shacks were completely empty,” Batman snapped back, irritated with both the boy’s disappearance and his faithful butler’s barely concealed anger.

            Alfred, his eyes wide with surprise, had nothing to say to that comment.

            “I searched Crime Alley but there’s no place to make a…” Batman trailed off.  ‘Make a home’ was the wrong phrase; Robin was just looking for a place with walls and a roof.

            Stalking to the Bat Research Shelf, the hero pulled out a geography book and placed it – slammed it – on the table.  He flipped through it until he found the section that had maps of different areas of Gotham City.  Then he flipped some more until he came to Crime Alley and the surrounding area.

            Running his fingers down the street lines and around the border, Batman searched for any place that could possibly be used as a small shelter.  There was an abandoned warehouse a few miles west of the southern border but that was another perfect hideout for villains.  Again, Robin was smart and would stay away from locations like that.

            Batman glanced at his Bat-watch – 2:47.  It was useless to spend the rest of his night looking through books.  He hadn’t slept well since he had first seen Robin attack and take down a knife-wielding criminal.  Fighting crime required at least a small amount of sleep but the hero didn’t want to stop his pursuit, even if it was for a relatively short amount of time.

            “Go to bed, sir.”

            Alfred’s quiet but slightly commanding voice came from behind Batman as he removed his cowl.  The faithful butler had quietly filled a syringe with Bat-knock out drops, just in case, and was grateful that he had thought of it.  Exhaustion was written all over the younger man’s face and Alfred knew the Caped Crusader rarely considered his own health when working on a case.

            Surprising his butler, a thoroughly discouraged and somewhat frustrated Batman nodded once and strode to his Batpole.  Unfortunately, resuming the search would have to wait until tomorrow night; Bruce Wayne had several annoying meetings that would take up the entire day.  Flipping the Compressed Steam Batpole lever, Batman shot himself up to the Manor and, reluctantly, went to bed.

* * *

Thursday, April 1

            Our trailer is still here.  The home where I spent the first ten years of my life is sitting all by itself at the old circus grounds.  I say old because I’m pretty sure that Haly’s Circus is never going to return.  Why would they come back to the place where two of their biggest stars fell to their deaths?

            Leona left a note saying that she waited for me for two whole days after the rest of the circus left.  If I had returned to get supplies during the day, or after the circus had pulled out, I would have been with my friends instead of in this dirty, depressing, crime-filled city.  What made me think that I could keep people safe, that I could prevent the deaths of other kids’ parents?  I help a little, I guess, but Crime Alley will never truly be safe.

            I lost a fight last night…badly.  Well, technically, I guess I won because the bad guys were unconscious and I got away but it was by far my worst win.  I couldn’t even go to sleep because of the pain.  I discovered that large, muscular men can hit hard when they can keep up with me.

            My ribs, the ones Batman and his friend just fixed, feel worse than they did before they were fixed.  I have a sharp, pounding headache that I’m sure is from the hits I took to the back of my head, the side of my head and my chin.  The intense throbbing hasn’t decreased even though it’s been several hours. 

            There were four criminals and I took down the first one easily – surprise is always a great advantage to have.  The second man raced out of the building before I had a chance to attack.  Of course it would be the skinniest one who would flee, the goon who would have been the easiest to defeat.

            The last two worked together and I actually thought about running away at one point.  I’m used to fighting big guys but I’ve never fought one fast enough to be on top of me when I land a trick, much less two!  They were brothers so, obviously, they knew how to fight as a unit.  I finally knocked one out, after receiving a lot of punishment, but the other guy threw me across the room and then tried to strangle me.  My throat is burning and probably looks like a giant blueberry.  That’s a stupid comparison.  I’m pretty sure it’s bruised, though.

            I broke the last guy’s nose and was able to leave before anyone woke up.  So now here I am, sitting in the same tree I hid in last year, attempting to get some rest.  I don’t want to go to the trailer yet because that will probably be the first place they check when they do wake up.  It was hard to get everything up here with me but feeling panicked gives me more strength, I guess.

            Maybe I should have stayed with Batman for a while longer.  Of course, if I had, I wouldn’t know about the bank robbery that the men were planning for tomorrow.  I don’t know who the boss is but the guy who ran away said he was a “brilliant villain”.  That’s awesome (I’m rolling my eyes sarcastically right now) because I am in no shape to take on a regular villain, much less a brilliant one.

            Gotta do what you gotta do, I guess.  Hopefully I live through tomorrow.

* * *

**Mid-morning:**         

            Joker strode through the door of his hideout and stopped in shock.  Three of his henchmen were sitting on the floor, bloody and holding their heads in obvious pain.  The fourth was nowhere to be seen.  How was he supposed to rob a bank with three guys that couldn’t take care of themselves for one night?!

            “What happened?!” he shrieked and heard a low moan.  The goon with the red hair looked up and Joker immediately knew his nose was broken.  His shirt had the name Scherzo and the villain glared at him, waiting for an explanation.

            But the henchman just dropped his head again and Joker growled.

            “Some kid…got jump…us,” a quiet voice came from near a pile of broken crates.  Chiste’s head was still down and the words were mumbled so Joker only caught a few.

            “ _A KID_?!” the villain screamed, fury filling the words.  “How did a kid do _this_ ,” he swept his arm around the room, “to all of you?!”

            “Fast, flips, jumping, strong.”  The words were muttered and came from all three men.

            “Not just _a_ kid, then,” Joker commented irritably.  “ _THE_ kid.”

            There was a moment of complete silence and then he grumbled, “I’m gonna kill him.”

            “Can the, uh, robbbbbery wa…wait?” the man closest to Joker, Gracejo, slurred.  “Nesssst week?”

            “No, this makes it more important,” the villain growled furiously.  “I need him gone or on my team.  _This_ ,” he pointed around the room again, “can’t be allowed to happen anymore.”

            The men began muttering for a second time but the words were too low to make out.

            “Idiots, imbeciles, cowards, weaklings!” Joker shouted the insults and the words echoed around the warehouse.  “I’ll just have to do it without you then!”

            Scherzo was able to get out a laugh.  “By yourself?” he chuckled softly.

            “Careful now,” the villain tsked, an implied threat filling his evil tone.  “I’ll just test another of my newest bombs tonight; that will probably draw him out.  If it doesn’t, a bank blows up tomorrow afternoon and I’ll be waiting for a little boy who will try to save the day by flipping around.”

            Joker glared at the men for a moment then added, “You three better be gone by the time I’m done here or you’ll blow up with the bomb.”

            Grinning wickedly, the brilliant villain strode to the back of the warehouse where his most precious supplies were stored.  With a loud, diabolical laugh, he began building one of the same bombs he had used on the night he had trapped Batman.

* * *

            Robin stayed in the tree all day.  He was able to take several, twenty minute power naps but he wasn’t even close to feeling rested when the sun began to set.  There had been no movements, that he had seen anyway, near his trailer or the warehouse.  Maybe he could sleep in his parents’ bed tonight and wake up feeling better tomorrow.  After all, there was a bank robbery he would have to prevent.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

            The sun had just set and Batman was preparing to go out.  The first place he was going to search would be the area around the gas station where he had found Robin.  Perhaps the boy had a safe house near there but hadn’t been able to make it because of his injuries.  It was a long shot because an inexperienced eleven-year-old probably wouldn't even think about having a safe house.  A long shot, however, was better than no shot.

            “Please be careful, sir,” Alfred said.  “He is going to be skittish; he’s eleven and trying to hide from _everybody_ right now.”

            “I know, Alfred,” Batman sighed.  “You were right last night.  I can’t force him to come here but maybe I can at least have a conversation and try to _convince_ him to return.”

            “I think the main thing you need to convince him of, Master Batman, is that he is no longer on his own.  Don’t push anything on him; just let him know that he can come to you if he ever wants to do so.”

            “I agree, Alfred.  Thanks for your advice, which always seems to lead to the wisest course of action.”

            Batman strode to the Batmobile, climbed in and took off down the tunnel.

            “Anytime, sir,” the faithful butler smiled at the now-empty space.  “Watching you grow into a strong hero has enabled me to think of a few words of wisdom over the years.”

            With a soft chuckle and a shake of his head, Alfred walked over to the Bat-camera monitor machine and flipped the levers up so he could watch Batman’s back.

* * *

**Abandoned circus grounds – ten o’clock:**     

            “This is going to be amaaaazing,” Joker sang quietly.  He placed the small bomb in the middle of the short building and set the timer.  Turning around, he raced out the door and headed for the forest behind the building.  There was a sturdy tree near the edge and the villain climbed up, settling down on the lowest branch and waiting in excited anticipation.  Surely this would bring the boy out and, hopefully, it was far enough away from Gotham City that Batman wouldn’t even notice.

* * *

            Something moved in the lower branches of his tree and Robin, who was lightly dozing, silently sat up and listened carefully.  He heard breathing – it was fast and loud and the performer in him recognized the humming noise of excitement.  Whoever, or whatever, was in the tree was eager for something to happen.

            Without making even a tiny sound, Robin parted the largest leaves under his bed of branches.  There, sitting on the short branch closest to the ground, was the green-haired villain who had twice beaten the eleven-year-old.  His heart started pounding and the ache in his head began to match the rhythm.  Robin was sure the crazy guy would hear the loud thumping so he quickly returned the leaves to their original position.  He was hidden but didn’t feel safe at all.

            There was a loud beeping sound and then a large explosion.  Grabbing a tall, skinny stick next to him, Robin gingerly pulled himself up to standing to see the source of the booming noise.  His blue eyes widened in shock – there was a pile of rubble where his trailer used to be and a small tire was flying toward the building he had been in last night.

            “Wooooooo hahahahahahaha!”

            The evil cackling came from below him and something in Robin snapped.  The villain had just blown up the young crime-fighter’s last connection to his family and the circus!

            Robin jumped off the top of the tree and caught one of the lower branches of the smaller tree to his left.  Using it like a high bar, he swung around and utilized the arm strength from years of training to stop himself when he flew up to a handstand.  Immediately switching his grip, the boy turned in a half circle and swung down the way he had come up.  He let go right before the momentum took him up to another handstand, arching into a graceful back layout that returned him to his original tree.  The branch he caught was flexible and it bent with his weight, almost snapping as he let go and caught the sturdy branch just above Joker with his knees.

            His back was to Joker as he swung down toward the man.  Robin arched at the last second, turning himself right side up.  Wrapping his strong arms around the villain’s ribcage, the boy threw his knees off the higher branch and used the momentum to latch his legs around Joker’s waist.  The duo began plummeting toward the ground that was only fourteen feet away, Robin hanging on to the villain’s back like a monkey.

            Robin was used to flying – he was still an aerialist – and knew how to use his body.  Releasing Joker’s ribcage, the youngest member of The Flying Graysons reached up and grabbed the floppy green hair of the villain.  He arched back again and pulled as hard as he could.  The man and the boy rotated backwards, spinning like a wheel, and Joker’s body hit the ground first.

            There was a painful snap in his already sore right ankle when his feet hit the ground but, luckily, Robin’s legs didn’t end up under the villain’s body.  Joker was on his stomach, his eyes squeezed shut, his face hideously contorted in pain and his lungs begging for the air that was refusing to enter his body.  The boy rolled off the heaving upper back of the man and crawled toward the pile of debris that used to be his home.

            Blood was dripping from the deep cut on his forehead that Alfred had stitched two nights ago and Robin felt the dried streaks on the back of his head becoming sticky again.  The eleven-year-old reached the smoking remains – nothing was recognizable, the bomb had completely demolished the trailer.

            “No,” he whispered in despair.  “Why?”

            Three tears slid out of his liquid-filled eyes but were captured and soaked up by the black material of his mask.  He thought about tearing the thing off and running away until he dropped dead from exhaustion.  That idea, however, was quickly rendered moot when pain shot through his skull and he tipped forward, landing face first on a piece of fluff that used to be a pillow.

            “Now that I have you,” Joker whispered both breathlessly and menacingly, “let’s have a little chat.”

            The villain dropped the plank of wood he had snatched from the small building he had just blown up, grabbed the boy by the back of his tunic and dragged him toward the warehouse on the other side of the circus grounds.

* * *

            Batman was searching around the gas station where he had last seen Robin.  All he had found was a puddle of dried blood that he had already known would be there.  Somewhere there had to be some kind of different clue that would help him find the boy.

            A sudden explosion rocked the shaky foundation of the store on the border of Crime Alley.  The Caped Crusader immediately abandoned his search and raced toward the Batmobile.  A giant orange and pink cloud divided the blackness of the night sky in half.

            _Joker_.  Batman remembered the bomb from the night Robin had rescued him.  The explosion had come from the southwest and the shortest way there was through Crime Alley.  Gunning the engine to life, the hero eased the Batmobile into the shadows of that section of the city then took off down the main road.

            Nineteen minutes and twenty-three seconds later he arrived at the abandoned circus grounds.  There was a small pile of smoking rubble on the far side, near the forest.  Batman climbed out of the Batmobile and strode over to investigate, pulling his Bat-flashlight out of his utility belt on the way.  The wreckage contained several clues: two small wheels that had been sliced open by shards of metal, several piles of lumpy material that could have been part of a mattress or pillow, a pipe that looked like it belonged to a small sink and a plank of wood with a handle attached – maybe it had formed a staircase.

            Something sparkly caught his eyes and the Caped Crusader carefully made his way to the middle of the debris.  It was a piece of red fabric, made of stretchy material, with several glittery circles sewn on it.  The circus grounds, red material, sequins, cloth that had to be flexible – the dots connected.  This had been the trailer of John, Mary and Richard Grayson.  Haly and his group of performers had left the boy _and_ his home, as if The Flying Graysons had never even been a part of the circus.

            _T_ _hat poor child._

            Alfred’s words echoed in Batman’s mind as he pictured young Richard Grayson staring at the smoking remains of his former home.  But maybe, hopefully, the boy hadn’t even been here.  Why would he go back to the place where he had lost his entire family? 

            Sweeping his Bat-flashlight to his left, Batman noticed four prints – two little circles and two small hands that could only belong to a child.  Sighing, the hero squashed the tiny bug of hope – Robin needed somewhere to live and this was a logical place to look for shelter.  A kid, quite possibly the young crime-fighter, had been crawling _toward_ the pile of rubble so Batman retraced the path to a patch of grass.  There were clear signs of a struggle and a faint outline of what could be a torso.

            This time the trail was two large, very distinctive footprints and the Caped Crusader followed them back to the wreckage.  His Bat-flashlight caught the glint of something shiny on a different plank of wood.  He crouched over the object: fresh blood.  There was another trail and this one was more obvious than any of the others.  Joker – the only person who would both blow something up and wear a sophisticated version of clown shoes – was dragging something or someone – probably Robin – toward the abandoned warehouse on the other side of the clearing.

            A scream of agony pierced the night air from the direction of the warehouse.  Dropping his Bat-flashlight, the Caped Crusader sprinted toward the building that was precisely forty-six yards away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comment, parksc1!

** Chapter 10: **

**Twenty minutes earlier:**

            “Wakey-wakey, little boy,” Joker snarled.  There was no response so the villain grabbed Robin’s chin and roughly shook his head from side to side.  A soft moan escaped the young crime-fighter’s mouth and his eyes fluttered.

            “Good enough,” the man growled then changed his mind.  Raising his right hand, Joker slapped the left side of Robin’s face as hard as he could.  The boy’s head snapped over his right shoulder and his eyes flew open, revealing normally light-blue circles that were darkened by pain.

            Joker had Robin sitting on a metal chair, his arms restrained behind him with handcuffs giving his small wrists a rigid hug.  The boy’s ankles were stuck against the front legs of the chair, heavily wrapped with silver duct tape, and there was a rope tightly encircling both the chair and his torso.

            “Welcome back to the land of the living, kid!” Joker crowed with delight.  “Now that I finally have you, we have some things to discuss.  Are you ready to have a chat with someone much smarter than you?”

            “Already done that,” Robin mumbled out of the right side of his mouth.  He tried to wriggle his hands out of the cold metal surrounding them but stopped when he realized he was scraping skin off his wrists.

            “My henchmen?!” the villain laughed hysterically.  “They’re stupid.  Even _you_ , kid, are smarter than them.”

            “No,” the boy replied, “Batman.”

            Joker’s maniacal grin turned into a frown.  “You talked to _Batman_?!” he shrieked.  “I thought you were a loner!”

            “Right on both counts,” Robin replied wearily.  “Can we get this conversation over with please?  I’m sleepy.”

            “Is it past your bedtime, little one?” the villain sneered.

            “Not sure…” Robin’s breathing hitched slightly before he continued, “…don’t know what, uh, what time it is.”

            “Somewhere between I caught you and you’re dead,” Joker declared loudly with a wicked grin.  “Unless you agree to my terms.”

            Robin was irritated with the villain and he hadn’t slept for more than twenty minutes at a time in over two days.  So, he closed his eyes and allowed his chin to drop to his chest.

            “Oh no you don’t, kid!” Joker exclaimed and punched Robin square in the jaw on the left side of his face.  The boy’s eyes popped open again and he managed to growl.

            “You’re not going to sleep or pass out until we are done talking!  And the conversation is over when _I_ say it’s over.  Got it?!”

            Rolling his eyes, Robin spit some blood out of his mouth and glared at the villain.  This time he tried freeing his legs but the duct tape wrapped securely around his ankles prevented him from moving them more than a centimeter.

            “Then finish talking so I can go to sleep!” he yelled.  “I had a rough night, taking out three men that were each twice my size, and I need my rest!”

            “Yeah, they did a pretty good number on you, didn’t they?” Joker stated with a fiendish laugh.  Abruptly changing his tone from darkly malicious to sugary sweet, the man continued, “Tell me the specifics, please.  They don’t seem to remember much.”

            “That’s what happens when you get kicked in the head,” Robin snapped irritably.

            “Sooooooo,” the villain drew the word out in anticipation, completely ignoring the kid’s snarky comment.  “What did they do to you?”

            “Because that would be the smart thing to do,” Robin retorted sarcastically.  “Telling the villain who wants to kill you where you got hurt so he can exploit your weaknesses.”

            The hit connected with his stomach this time and Robin gasped in pain and, now, a little bit of fear.  He was no match for this man; he should have just stayed in the tree.  But the guy had _blown up_ his last connection to the circus!  The eleven-year-old scowled at that thought and anger replaced the fear.

            Joker glared at the boy who should be trembling in fear but was struggling against his bonds instead.

            “You’ve foiled three of my schemes, kid, and I’m being nice by giving you a choice.”    

            “Those were plans?!” Robin exclaimed, both eyebrows raised in disbelief.  “Putting Batman in a big box, dancing around a pair of men in the street and hiring four guys who couldn’t take care of a small boy?  You need to work on your planning skills,” he finished with a smirk.  If he was going to die anyway, he might as well insult his murderer until he couldn’t speak anymore.

            “What…why you little…” Joker stumbled over the words in fury.  The kid was practically calling him an idiot!

            “Yeah, one of your guys, the coward who ran away, called you one of Gotham City’s most brilliant villains.  Boy, was he ever wrong!” 

            That earned Robin a vicious kick to the ribs and he cried out in agony.  Stars flamed up in his mind and fireworks exploded over the villain’s head.  The young crime-fighter decided that now was a good time to stop talking, he could barely breathe anyway, so he dropped his head and gasped for air.

            “I don’t even know if I want to give you a choice now,” Joker snarled.  “However, you could be trained to become a valuable asset.  So, here are your options.  First, I kill you.  Second, I beat you up some more and then I kill you.  Third, you join my team and become my sidekick.  You have thirty seconds to make your decision.”

            Without hesitation, Robin slowly lifted his head and glared at the villain.

            “You forgot the fourth choice,” he stated breathlessly.  “You release me, we fight, I take you down and you go back to prison.  I choose number four.”

            Robin somehow managed to add a chuckle to the end of the sentence and Joker’s face darkened with rage.  That, for the man, was the last straw.

            “And I choose number two, idiotic kid.  You’re going to wish you had chosen number one in about an hour.  But before the real fun starts, I’m just going to rough you up a little.  There aren’t enough colors on your body.  You need some more red,” Joker slammed his fist into the deep cut on the small forehead, “and some more blue,” he finished as his fists flew around the small torso.

            His ears were ringing, blood was streaming down his entire face and he was sure that every single rib was shattered.  But Robin refused to give in – he was going to hold on as long as he could, do his best to be as strong as his dad.  With that thought in mind, he spit at the blurry face of the villain.  A mixture of blood, sweat and saliva flew into Joker’s eyes and he took a step back, throwing his hands up and wiping the stuff off his face.

            “You’re going to pay for that, imbecile,” the man growled at the boy.  There was a beat of silence as they glared at each other, one in fury and the other in defiance.

            “In fact, you’re going to regret being born,” Joker snarled, pulling a wicked-looking knife from his jacket pocket.

            “ _And you’re going to regret doing all of this_!” a booming voice thundered from the direction of the door.

* * *

            Batman pulled up short when he arrived at the entrance to the warehouse.  He needed to evaluate the situation and determine the best course of action.  Quietly sliding into the shadow behind the open door, the Caped Crusader peered through the crack between the wall and the door.  Robin was in a chair, completely immobilized, extremely bloody and gasping in pain.

            He could also see Joker and was about to attack when he heard the villain explain the boy’s choices.  Batman’s eyes narrowed – die or become the sidekick to a man like Joker?!  The independent Robin wasn’t meant to be a sidekick but he was in a difficult position.  Would the young crime-fighter give in when his own life was threatened?

            “You release me, we fight, I take you down and you go back to prison.  I choose number four.”

            The boy’s breathless, pain-filled words were accompanied by a low chuckle and the Caped Crusader’s eyes widened in astonishment.

            Robin was the strongest, bravest kid Batman had ever met – braver than many adults.  Very few people would be bold enough to even _talk_ to Joker, much less try to goad the man into a fight!

            “…and some more blue.”

            Batman quickly shook himself out of his stupor.  Joker was pummeling the boy’s torso and the Caped Crusader strode angrily around the door.  Robin spit in the man’s face, the villain growled something about paying for an imbecile and the imposing figure of the furious hero marched into the room.

            “In fact, you’re going to regret being born.”

            “ _And you’re going to regret doing all of this_!” Batman roared as he stalked toward the nearly-unconscious boy and startled, wide-eyed villain.

            Joker turned toward the back of the warehouse and started to race away but the Caped Crusader was already upon him.  He showed no mercy, slamming his fists into every part of the man’s body that he could see.

            “St…stop,” a quiet voice came from behind him.  Batman’s fury-filled eyes stared down at the pulp of human flesh that was Joker to make sure he was completely knocked out.  Satisfied, he whipped out his Bat-cuffs and secured them around the villain’s wrists.  Standing up, he turned toward the chair and the young crime-fighter – hero, Batman suddenly decided – who was slumped in pain.

            “Don’t…kill,” Robin whispered.  There was a pleading quality in his tone and Batman was surprised.  After everything that the villain had done, the boy was asking Batman to spare the man’s life.

            Striding to the boy’s side and crouching down in front of him, the Caped Crusader began working on the knotted rope around the small chest.

            “I don’t kill,” Batman declared softly as his fingers deftly untangled the knot.  The rope was too tight for him to use his Bat-knife; the slice that would set the boy free would also cut him open.  Robin was wheezing and Batman had to remind him to breathe – twice – before finally untying the knot and pulling the rope away.

            There was a quiet sigh of relief as Batman pulled his Bat-knife out of his utility belt and made quick work of the duct tape around the boy’s ankles.  The Bat-knife returned to the belt and a Bat-pick was pulled out.  The handcuffs were released in less than ten seconds and Robin’s arms dropped limply to his sides.

            “I need to know the extent of your injuries, kiddo.  I need you to stay awake and tell me what hurts.  Can you do that for me?”

            “Ye…yeah, I think…so,” came the whispered reply.

            “Okay, start at the top of your body and work your way down.  Don’t move, just tell me where you’re hurting and how bad it hurts.  No, Robin, stay awake!” Batman suddenly demanded loudly when the boy’s eyes fluttered and leaned toward closing.

            “Sssssorry,” he slurred.  “Sssstart at top, got it.  Uh, I think my head turned into a…a volcano.  So much laaaaava.  But how can I still talk?  Thasssss weird.”

            “It’s blood, Robin, not lava and it’s all over your face.  You also have some trickling over your left ear and there’s a puddle on the floor behind you.  I’m going to wrap your head with Bat-wrap.”

            Batman removed the Bat-wrap from another pocket in his utility belt and swathed the small head in the light-brown material.  Then he took out a small Bat-towel and carefully began soaking up and wiping away the majority of the blood on the young face.

            “Issss not a vol…cano?” Robin asked, confusion surrounding the words.  “Whasss Bat-wrap?  Isssssss like, um, Bat-ice?”

            “It’s definitely a head on your shoulders, not a volcano,” the Caped Crusader assured the boy while stuffing the now-soaked-with-blood Bat-towel into his utility belt.  He ignored the second and third questions in favor of continuing to evaluate the injuries.

            “Keep going, kiddo,” Batman stated but then thought of something.  “Can you see me, Robin?  How do I look?”

            A quiet, youthful laugh tumbled out of Robin’s mouth.  “You look like a bat, sssssilly.  Issssn that why your name isssss Batman?”

            The older hero snatched his mini Bat-flashlight out of his utility belt and shined it in the younger hero’s eyes.  The pupils were dilated and the eyes were darting around, unable to focus on anything.

            “Gonna be sssssss…” Robin mumbled right before throwing up.  He had swiftly turned his head away from Batman, who was surprised that the boy was aware enough to even think about doing that.

            “Okay, you definitely can’t go to sleep on me.  You have a severe concussion and I don’t want you going into a coma.  _Stay awake, Robin_!”

            The last sentence was shouted when Robin’s head lolled around his shoulders and his eyelashes traveled toward his cheeks.

            “I’m gonna turn into a comma?” the boy asked, startled into awareness by the loud command.  “I din’t know that wasss psssssble.  My ribsies hurts,” he giggled then grimaced.

            Batman gently probed the small torso and his grimace matched the one on the boy’s face.  Alfred was going to have a lot of fixing to do in that area.

            “What else hurts, Robin?”

            “Can I jussss say e…rything?”

            “No,” Batman declared firmly.  _But only because I need you to stay awake_.

            “That thing…by foot…you know…bendsssss…?”

            “Your ankle?” Batman clarified and Robin nodded.

            Looking down, the Caped Crusader immediately knew which ankle Robin was attempting to describe.  The right one was purple and so swollen that the boy’s tennis shoe was threatening to pop off.  Batman knew the difference between a sprain and strain.  This one was definitely a strain – he could feel the torn tendon even through the fabric of his glove.

            “What else?!” Batman shouted.  He hadn’t been paying attention to Robin’s face and the blue eyes had disappeared.  They immediately reappeared at the loud noise.

            “Did I ssssssay ribsiessss?”

            “Yes, kiddo, and I understand why you’re telling me again.  Four are broken and three more are probably fractured.  Your torso has taken quite the beating this week.”

            “My torso isssss a beet?  I don’ like beets.  Gross.”

            “No,” Batman sighed, “your torso is not a beet.  The good news is that I can move you with only a six percent chance of killing you.”

            “I…but…kill?!” Robin gasped.

            Batman opened his mouth, intending to reassure the boy that nobody was going to kill or be killed tonight.  But Robin asked the next question before the Caped Crusader could get any words out.

            “You hate me?”

            The three words were whispered sadly and the eleven-year-old crime-fighter sounded completely defeated.  A single, tiny drop of liquid slid out of the corner of his left eye and slowly made its way through the small, pink streaks of drying blood on the young face.

            “What?!” the man exclaimed quietly, shocked at the question.

            He wasn’t quite sure why, but Batman suddenly wanted to wrap the boy in a giant hug and shield him from the world.  Instead, he hesitantly lifted his right hand and caught the tear with his blue-gloved thumb.  Gently, the hero wiped the drop away, leaving a faint trail of brown that resembled a dusty rainbow.

            “No, Robin,” Batman continued, “of course I don’t hate you!”

            The seemingly random inquiry puzzled the Caped Crusader.  Why, out of all the words that were probably playing tag in his brain, would Robin choose those three to form a question? 

            “Din’t return batty weapon thingy,” Robin suddenly continued forlornly.  “‘Sssssat home.  Old home.  No, new old home.  Old old home jusss ‘boooooooooom’.”

            The young crime-fighter slowly drew out the last sound and spread his arms as wide as they could go.  The explanation solved the puzzle in Batman’s brain and he was impressed again.  Robin was intelligent, brave, strong and honest.  He was also stubborn and somewhat reckless but the Caped Crusader pushed that thought out of his mind for now.

            “Let’s go, Robin,” Batman commanded as he stood up and helped the boy to his feet.  “Do you think you can walk?”

            “Course, ssssssilly.  Gots two legs, right?”

            Robin took a step with his right foot and almost crumpled to the ground.  Batman had already wrapped his left arm across the boy’s back and around the small chest so he was able to stop the collapse.

            “You’re walking, kiddo, because it will keep you awake.  Don’t put too much weight on your right ankle, that’s why I’m supporting you on this side.  Ready?”

            “I wassss born ready, kiddo,” Robin grinned as his head flopped forward.  “Are you sure my head issssn volcano?  Ssssso heavy and burning…”

            Robin somehow kept up a steady stream of nonsensical chatter from the warehouse all the way to the Batmobile.  Batman settled him in the passenger seat and walked around to the driver’s side.  Just as he opened the door, he heard a quiet ‘click’ and watched a small body begin stumbling toward the trees.

            “Are you kidding me?!” the Caped Crusader grumbled, slightly annoyed.  He had just rescued the boy and, instead of thanking him by returning to the Batcave, Robin was trying to escape again.  The young hero was already at the tree line and Batman sprinted toward the forest.

            “ _ROBIN_!” he roared.  The last time Richard Grayson had entered that particular group of trees, he had been left behind by the only family he had ever known.  Batman wasn’t going to allow the boy to get lost again.

            So, the Caped Crusader was surprised when he entered the forest as the first light of the morning sun peeked over the eastern horizon.  Robin’s stomach was leaning against a very familiar tree – the one Bruce Wayne had apologized to over a year ago.  He was staring pitifully up into the branches, nearly invisible tears weaving tiny tracks on his cheeks.

            “What’s going on, Robin?” Batman asked quietly, not at all certain that the boy was in his right mind.

            “My…my stuff,” Robin whimpered.  “I can’t…I can’t get there.  I _need_ it.  Please help me?”  He sounded so much younger than his eleven years and Batman was reminded that, although strong and independent, Robin was first and foremost a still-grieving child.

            “It’s in the tree?” Batman asked, his tone outlined with skepticism.

            “Y…yes.  At the very tippy top, where nobody can find it,” Robin replied with a soft touch of pride in his tone.  “‘Cept me,” he amended.

            “And you want me to climb up there and get it for you?”  This question was outlined with disbelief.  Robin wanted him, a well-built man, to climb to the _top_ of a tree?

            “Yes, please.  Jusss…jusss don’t open it.  Please,” Robin whispered sadly and that tone made Batman’s decision for him.    

            “Okay, but you need to do something for me.  I want you to sit here…” the Caped Crusader gently pushed Robin down “…until I come back.  If something bad happens, yell at me.  Don’t try to fight any criminals right now, okay?”

            Light-blue eyes widened and filled with fear.  “Bad?!” Robin nearly screamed.  “What could be worsers than watching them die?!”

            Ignoring the question, and hoping that Robin wouldn’t remember later that he had asked it, Batman began climbing the tree.  There were several spots where he got stuck and had to tear off some small branches in order to move higher.  The young hero had been telling the truth: it was at the tippy top, inside a sort-of nest that was just the right size for a ten- or eleven-year-old body.

            _So this is where you hid last year.  You were right above me, them, the whole time.  It’s a smart place to hide but it was a stupid idea to stay hidden, kiddo._

            Grabbing the tightly knotted bundle, Batman slowly made his way down the tree.  It took him longer with the pack and he wondered how Robin had been able to get it up there in the first place.

            Batman finally made it to the ground and internally growled at what he saw.  Of course one of the small branches would land on Robin’s head, as if enough hadn’t happened to the boy this week.  The younger hero was staring at his feet and gently swaying side to side, the large stick well-centered on the top of his head.

            Soft sounds were floating in the air and the Caped Crusader realized that the boy was counting.  The number one hundred was whispered triumphantly and Robin lifted his right hand.  He carefully lifted the branch off his head and tossed it away before looking up.

            “Thaaaaanks!”  Robin’s wide, blue eyes were shining with tears and the soft word was filled with such sincerity that Batman actually allowed a real smile to cross his entire face.

            “You’re welcome,” the Caped Crusader replied quietly as he put the bundle down and crouched in front of Robin.

            “How’s your head, kiddo?”

            “Um, the same, I guess?” Robin replied in confusion.  “Unless it turned into a volcano, of course…”

            “No,” Batman quickly interrupted.  “That branch hit you on the head, right?  Does it hurt…”

            This time it was Robin who interrupted.  “No, it didn’t fall on me!” he stated, sounding a bit petulant.  “I was practicing so I can go on the tightrope!  Was I really that bad?!”

            Sighing for what felt like the hundredth time, Batman shook his head.  First Robin had mentioned watching his parents fall and now he was talking about the tightrope.  It was fortunate that nobody was around to hear this conversation.

            “Are we going to your houssss?” the boy abruptly changed the subject, his voice nearly inaudible.  “You don’ have to… I’m feeling better…don’t wasssse your time…fine on my own.”

            The words were flying out of Robin’s mouth so quickly that he couldn’t form a complete sentence but Batman got the gist of it.

            “Remember when I told you that you’re not a burden?” Batman said gently.  “It’s not a waste of our time to fix you up, Robin.  And you don’t have to be on your own anymore.  Whenever you need or want something, you can find me.  I’m always willing to combine forces with a fellow crime-fighter.”

            That remark received a small grin and Batman lifted the boy to his feet.  Robin was facing the tree again so Batman carefully turned him around and picked up the boy’s bundle.

            “Immmmaaaa crime-fighter,” Robin snickered as they slowly started walking toward the Batmobile.

            “You said you’re feeling better.  Is that the truth or were you trying to convince both of us that you were okay?”

            Robin dropped his head.  “Was a lie,” he admitted softly.  “Not sup…supposed to lie.  I’m sssssssorry!” he yelled and unexpectedly burst into tears.

            “Hey, okay, no need to…it’s okay.”

            Batman was thinking about panicking.  He had no idea how to handle a crying child, especially when he didn’t even know why the kid was crying in the first place.

            “I’m a horrible persssssson,” Robin wailed as they arrived at the Batmobile.  “I’m not good at anything anymoooooore!”

            “What?!  No, Robin, that’s not true.  You took down Joker, remember?  He’s a big-time villain…”

            “No, _you_ took him down!” the boy sobbed.  “I sat in a chair like a…like a baby!  Leona was wrong, she was _wrong_!  I’ll never be as strong as daaaaaaaaddy!”

            By this time Batman had helped Robin into the passenger seat and was buckling the safety Bat-belt.  Quickly shutting the door, the Caped Crusader raced to his side, climbed in, gunned the engine to life and roared down the road.  He needed Alfred.  Alfred would know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While researching concussions, I discovered that there is a difference of opinion regarding whether or not the person should be allowed to go to sleep. For the purposes of this story, it's not okay to fall asleep. Thanks! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for commenting FMarie! :)

** Chapter 11: **

**The Batcave:**

            Alfred was pacing, something he rarely did.  But Batman had been gone all night with no contact.  The butler had tried his Bat-communicator but had received no response.  He had tried the Batphone extension in the Batmobile but the hero hadn’t answered that, either.

            The familiar roar of the Batmobile reached his ears and Alfred sighed in relief.  The sound began to die down as the vehicle slowed and another noise took its place.  Sobbing – the loud, heart-wrenching sobs of a child in some kind of pain.  The butler both smiled and frowned, a nearly impossible feat.  Batman had been able to convince Robin to return to the Batcave, although what the boy was crying about was unclear.

            Batman parked the Batmobile and climbed out.  Before he could get to the other side, Robin had already opened the door and was attempting to stand up.  He was leaning heavily on the side of the vehicle and Batman was there to support him in less than five seconds.

            The butler was shocked at the boy’s appearance.  There was so much blood in addition to the copious amount of tears and exhausted sweating.

            “Sir, what happened?!” Alfred whispered incredulously.

            “Joker,” Batman replied quietly as he directed Robin to a medical table.

            “Is that why he’s crying, sir?”

            “I don’t know,” the hero replied, sounding rather helpless.  “He was okay until we started to leave.  Then he couldn’t reach his things and was crying – there was a pack of stuff at the top of a tree – so I went up and retrieved it for him.  But then we started walking to the Batmobile and he just broke down.  All I asked was if he was feeling better, like he had told me!”

            Robin was now sitting on a medical table, his head in his hands and still crying softly.

            Turning his attention to the boy, Alfred asked, “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, young sir?”

            “No.”

            The trembling word was nearly inaudible and the men looked at each other.

            “Okay, may I try to patch you up then?”

            “No,” there was a short pause and then, “I mean, yessssss, would be helpful but if don’ have time…”

            “I always have time to fix the injuries of crime-fighters, young sir,” Alfred stated kindly as he carefully unwound the Bat-wrap that was hugging the boy’s head.

            Lifting his head, Robin stared into the man’s concerned eyes with gratitude in his own.  “Th…thanksssss.”

            The butler nodded gently with a soft smile on his face.  Then he walked around the boy, staring at the small body critically before returning to the front.

            “Will you, uh, tell me what do…ing?” Robin whispered, his young voice full of fear.  This was going to hurt, he knew that, and he wasn’t looking forward to the pain.

            “Of course, young sir.”

            Robin glanced at Batman, who was standing stock still with his arms folded across his chest and a frown sitting on his face.

            The boy flinched and dropped his head.  Alfred threw a slight glare at the other man and Batman received the unspoken message.

            Crouching down in front of Robin, the Caped Crusader found the light-blue eyes and connected them with his own, dark-blue ones.

            “I’m not mad at you, Robin,” he stated softly.  “I’m concerned.  Can I stay and help?”

            “If, uh, have time…?”  The phrase was full of hope but already outlined with disappointment.

            The man grinned up at the boy.  “No matter where you are or what I’m doing, I will always have time for you, kiddo.”

            _Where did that come from and why did I say it out loud?!  I barely know the kid!_

            The sentence shocked Batman and he instantly realized that he had just made a promise that he probably wouldn’t be able to keep.  However, the look of both awe and relief on Robin’s face forced the thought away.

            “I’m going to list your injuries while Batman writes them down, young sir,” Alfred stated, a little louder than he had spoken before. 

            Standing up, Batman grabbed a Bat-notebook and Bat-pencil from the drawer on his right.  Nodding to his butler, the Caped Crusader readied himself for a long list.

            Before beginning, however, Alfred took a moment to study Batman’s expression, his eyes intensely searching the blue circles of his charge.  One white eyebrow rose quizzically and the older man’s gaze flicked to Robin then returned to Batman.  The reckless pledge had not gone unnoticed by the perceptive butler.

            The Caped Crusader slowly lifted his shoulders in a hesitant shrug and Alfred shook his head in disapproval.  Hopefully the eleven-year-old would forget the promise that Alfred knew Batman was already regretting.  The boy had enough pain in his life; he didn’t need to add an empty promise to the list.  Especially one regarding his place in Batman’s world.  What little self-worth he had would disappear completely if Robin realized that the words were thrown out carelessly and meant nothing.

_For now, anyway._   Alfred pondered that thought while returning his attention to the seriously injured boy.

            “If I miss something, young sir, please let me know.”

            Robin lifted his head and nodded slightly.  “But, um, not ssssssir,” he stated.  “Jussssss Robin…not that important.”

            Ignoring the comment, something else that Alfred rarely did, the butler began speaking.

            “Large bump on the back of the head accompanied by a long but rather shallow cut.  Bat-ice but no stitches.  Deep cuts on both the forehead and the left side, just above the ear.  Both will require an extensive amount of stitching.  Several dark bruises on the throat – did someone try to, ehm, strangle you, young sir?”

            “Yeah,” Robin whispered, “the, um, lassss guy…”

            “That’s all I needed to know,” Alfred stated quickly when he saw trepidation fill the youthful eyes.  It was obvious that the boy wasn’t ready to talk about his ordeal yet.

            “We’re going to have to remove your tunic, young man, so I can check your ribs.”

            Robin grimaced, squeezed his eyes shut and slowly lifted his arms.  “Ready,” he stated softly.  His breathing went from shallow to panting then stopped altogether as he prepared himself for the immense pain.

            Just as they had last time, the men jumped into action and quickly pulled the tunic over the small head.  Batman swiftly slid the straps of the green leotard over Robin’s shoulders and down his arms.  Then Alfred just as swiftly unwound the Bat-wrap that he had used only two nights ago.

            “Breathe, kiddo, we’re done!” Batman yelled when the boy’s face went from red to purple.  Robin flinched, exhaled and almost fell off the table.  The Caped Crusader caught him and pushed him back up to sitting as the eleven-year-old took a wheezing, pain-filled breath and re-opened his eyes.

            Both Batman and Alfred knew it was going to look bad but this was worse than they had pictured in their heads.  Robin’s torso looked like a purple plum spotted with flecks of coal and there were jagged bumps on both sides.  The bulge on the right side shifted positions every time the boy took a breath, something that Batman knew from experience felt like a knife being jostled around inside the body.

            “Seven injured ribs,” Alfred murmured, disbelief filling the words.  He briefly wondered how the boy was still awake with so many serious injuries.  A probable answer immediately presented itself, forcing the previous thought to flee.

            “Did you check for a concussion, sir?”

            “Yes,” Batman replied.  “His eyes can’t focus on one thing for more than a few seconds, he was very confused when I found him, he slurs sometimes – you’ve probably noticed that – and the things he spoke about when we were leaving the warehouse made no sense at all.  Oh, and he threw up.”

            “Severe, then.  Thank you for keeping him awake, sir.  Right ankle swollen but not broken.  Bat-ice followed by Bat-wrap will suffice.  Anything else, young sir?” Alfred inquired louder than before when he saw a pair of fluttering eyelids.

            “Sssss…ssleepy,” Robin mumbled.  Batman was holding the boy’s shoulders and he immediately shook them, gently at first and then harder when there was no response.

            “Remember what I said, Robin!” he almost shouted.  “You can’t go to sleep yet; I need you awake.  What do you want to talk about?”

            “I…boxes…three guyssss by self and you’re amaaaaaaazing,” the boy replied loudly.  “Wanna fight like you, not tree.”

            “A tree, young sir?” Alfred commented as he began stitching the boy’s forehead.

            Slowly lifting his hands and clenching them into fists, Robin declared, “The tree hatesss me.  Blood forever and ever and ever,” he finished solemnly.

            Batman brought one of the small hands closer to his face and raised his eyebrows.  There were light scars on every single knuckle except the thumbs.  They were irregular in shape; the Caped Crusader had never seen anything like it.

            “Why does the tree hate you?” Batman asked.  The boy seemed to be spiraling into nonsense again and concern was obvious in the older hero’s voice.

            “Beat ‘im up!” Robin stated proudly.  “Ever’ night!”

            The puzzle pieces connected easily and Batman understood.  The boy had practiced his fighting skills by hitting a tree over and over.  How long had that gone on?  It had stopped a while ago, the lack of scabs was evidence of that, but it must have lasted for at least a week or two to leave such scars.

            “So, you beat up a tree every night?  That must have hurt.”

            “Nope!  Wait, yep.  But I coln’t jusssss fight bad guysssss.  Din’t know how.  Why are you fillin’ my muth wi…cottn ballssss?

            “But you have a unique style of fighting.  Where did you learn that?”

            Alfred glanced at Batman with one eyebrow raised.  The hero was digging and the butler wasn’t happy about it.

            “Nope!” Robin yelled the word this time.  “Can’t tricky tricky.  Not tell back…ground.”

            The last word was whispered as a sharp wave of pain rippled down the boy’s body.  It was accompanied by a clenched jaw and nearly inaudible grunt of anguish.

            Alfred, with a slight grin full of sympathy and outlined with mirth, finished the last stitch on the forehead and moved to the side.  He was impressed that the boy, even though he had a severe concussion, was aware enough to be able to protect his identity.

            “Wha’ happen to ribsies?” the boy suddenly gasped.  “Lost, I lossssss them!  So sssss…stupid!” he mumbled as his eyes filled with tears again.

            “You still have them, Robin,” Batman immediately replied.  “You didn’t lose them and nobody in their right mind would ever call you stupid.”

            This time it was Batman’s mouth that was turned up in a slight grin.  Alfred had slipped a quick shot of Bat-numb into Robin’s side when the boy had been focused on the tree and it was working now.

            “Oh.  ‘K.”  The tears didn’t fall and the Caped Crusader sighed in relief.  He didn’t know if he could handle another breakdown, even with Alfred by his side.

            “Stop tickl…!”

            Alfred was adjusting Robin’s ribs and the boy was wiggling.  He could just barely feel the man’s hands, making it seem like feathers were swishing around his torso.

            “Sir,” the butler requested both firmly and quietly.

            Batman kept one hand on Robin’s shoulder and gently placed the other under the small chin.

            “Look at me, kiddo,” he demanded as he watched the light-blue eyes begin to dart around the room again, “and calm down.”

            The command caused the boy to focus on the Caped Crusader instead of Alfred’s light touch and he instantly stopped wiggling.

            “What else do you want to tell me?” Batman asked as he moved his hand back to Robin’s shoulder.

            “Villain names,” the young hero promptly replied and Batman was slightly confused.

            “You want to…”

            “No, sssssssilly,” the boy loudly interrupted the man.  “ _You_ tell _me_!”

            “Okay, the one you’ve met several times is Joker.”

            “First hurt ribeye,” Robin giggled.  “Jerk,” he muttered three seconds later with a frown.

            Ignoring the comment again, Batman continued, “I think you’ve seen Riddler.  He’s the guy that was dressed all in green and that was the day you kicked me in the chest.”

            Blue eyes widened with regret, just as they had the first time he had met Batman.

            “Sorry,” the eleven-year-old whispered, staring forlornly at the bat symbol stretching across the chest of the Caped Crusader.

            “Were you scared?” Batman asked softly.  “Of me, I mean?”

            “Worried.  Can’t tell identity.  You were running,” Robin accused indignantly.  “Had to stop you and only think of that.”

            By this time Alfred had swathed Robin’s entire torso in Bat-wrap and was on his way to the Bat-freezer.

            “Ssssssorry,” Robin whispered again.  “I’m sounding really stupid, huh?”

            The change was so abrupt that Alfred dropped the pack of Bat-ice he had just retrieved from the Bat-freezer, his eyes wide with surprise.

            Batman stared at Robin in disbelief.  “Are you…okay?”

            “I…I don’t know.  Was I making any, um, sense?  Did I tell you anything important?”

            “You told us that you fought a tree and showed us your scars.”

            “Yeah, din’t like that.  Only way could think of to learn to fight.”

            Looking down at his knuckles, Robin sighed and stated, “Din’t work, though.  I wassss really bad at it so I just decided make stuff up.”

            “You _created_ your style of fighting, by yourself?!” Batman exclaimed.

            “Got sleepy…no, wrong word… _tired_ of having self-inflicted bloody knuckles all the time.  Wasn’t really strong enough to do anything when hit the bad guyssss.  Mostly they laughed at me for those first three months.”

            “So you learned how to add power and stay away from large fists,” Batman commented, impressed with the boy’s natural talent.

            “I’m nothing compared to you.  You’re a real hero, bad guysssss _scared_ of you!  I’m jus’ kid from the…” Robin slapped a hand over his mouth before he could continue.

            “You don’t have to tell me,” Batman said.  “I can wait until you’re ready; I trust you.”

            To the amazement of both men, Robin lifted his arms and slowly untied his mask.  Before he removed it, Alfred gently grabbed the small wrists.

            “Are you sure, young sir?”

            “No, but, um, one of criminals lassss night or this morning or whenever, made fun of me because no backup.  Maybe…I mean…never mind, forget it.”

            Robin quickly re-tied his mask and Batman sent a dark Bat-glare in Alfred’s direction.

            “I think it’s time for you to rest, young sir,” Alfred stated quietly, ignoring the look he could feel blazing through his chest.  “I took the liberty of crafting a bed in the Bat-changing area, sir, if you want…”

            Before the older man could complete the sentence, Batman had helped Robin off the table and was now leading him to the room at which Alfred was pointing.  Picking up the small package of Bat-ice, the butler followed.  By the time he arrived, Robin was situated on the make-shift bed and Batman was brushing the dark hair away from the young, red-rimmed eyes.

            “I can…ssssleep?  I thought…din’t you say…?”

            “It’s been over three hours since we arrived in the Batcave, kiddo.  So, yes, you can go to sleep.”

            The slight slurs and missing words were a little concerning but not enough for Batman and Alfred to keep the boy awake.

            “Are you, uh, leaving?” Robin asked in a voice so quiet that Batman had to lean over to hear him.

            “No, I’ll be at the Bat-computer, unless I receive a call on the Batphone or see the Bat-signal.”

            “Thassssso cool,” Robin exclaimed softly.  “Special gadgets, awesome car, sssspecial phones and machines and even spesh lice!”  The young voice slowly faded as Robin drifted off to sleep.  Batman grinned slightly; he definitely didn’t have special lice, or even regular lice.

            “Sir?” Alfred whispered as he situated the Bat-ice on the right ankle.  Batman was still staring down at the boy and the butler had several things to tell him out of Robin’s earshot.

            “I know that tone of voice, Alfred,” Batman stated as they returned to the main part of the Batcave.  Folding his arms tightly across his chest to demonstrate his irritation, the hero growled, “Why did you stop him and what do you know?”

            “I stopped him, sir, because he is extra vulnerable right now and I don’t want him to regret anything he did while dazed, confused and hurt.”

            “But he was lucid when he untied his mask!”

            “I realize that, to us, sir, he seemed fine.  But when he returns to his normal self, I want him to feel safe.  That won’t happen if he knows he revealed himself while drugged and susceptible to suggestion.”

            Alfred spoke with the wisdom of years of experience and Batman reluctantly agreed with the observation.

            Unbeknownst to the men, Robin’s eyes snapped open and widened.  The old man was smart and sounded really concerned.  What did he know?  Quietly, the boy sat up, slowly slid his legs off the bed and listened carefully.

            “What I know, sir,” the butler continued softly, “is that the yellow patch is a jagged ‘R’.  I don’t know how he cut it but obviously the name ‘Robin’ is especially important to him.  And his tunic, sir, is covered with dried blood.  A _lot_ of dried blood, sir.”

            “He probably gets hurt a lot, Alfred,” Batman sighed wearily.  “I’m sure he’s had more than enough chances for blood to collect on the tunic.”

            “Master Batman,” Alfred dropped his voice to a whisper, “do you remember what you told me when we were driving home on _that_ night?”

            Robin narrowed his eyes when he heard the man emphasize the word.  What night was he referring to and why did he call the hero “Master” Batman?

            Batman sighed again, “I told you a lot of things, Alfred.”

            “Specifically, sir, you said he had skidded several feet across the floor in the blood flowing out of his parents’ bodies.  Do you really think that he could have found a clean tunic that was the exact same color as his costume?  Or do you think he had the cleaning supplies necessary to remove dried blood from material such as that?”

            Dark-blue eyes widened in shock as the comments registered in Batman’s brain.  In the Bat-changing area, light-blue eyes widened in shock.  How had they figured it out?  More importantly, if Batman had been there, why hadn’t he saved Robin’s parents?!

            “Are you suggesting that he’s wearing his _parents’_ blood?!” the hero exploded without thinking of the consequences they would face if Robin woke up, not knowing that he was already awake.

            The thundering, echoing words made the boy stand up and limp to the doorway.  He leaned against the wall and ran his right hand through his messy hair.  Sighing regretfully, Robin peered around the door.

            “I wish I was merely suggesting it, sir,” Alfred replied as he put a finger to his lips.  The Caped Crusader understood and made a mental note to keep his voice down.

            “He’s wearing a constant reminder of that day across his chest!” Batman exclaimed softly.  “How can he…he’s _eleven_ , Alfred!”

            “He’s also extremely strong, Master Batman, physically and, it appears, emotionally.  He had to grow up quickly, sir.”

            “So, uh, you already knew?” a quiet voice came from behind the two men.  “How long and how did you find out?  And why didn’t you tell me?”

            Both men closed their eyes in guilt, then opened them and turned around.  Robin was standing tall, his arms folded defensively across his chest.  Surprise, disappointment and anger were fighting for control in his expressive eyes.

            “There was a tracker on the Bat-a-rang you took to your…house,” Batman replied.

            “You ssssaw…everything?!” Robin exclaimed in dismay.  His entire body tensed and both men saw the lightning flash of pain that dashed across his features.

            “No, young sir, we didn’t read your journal.”

            A pair of small shoulders sagged in relief and Robin swayed slightly before leaning against the door jamb.

            “All this time you’ve been lying to me?!” he cried in distress.  “You want me to trust but you’ve been _lying_?!  And if you were there, why didn’t you save _THEM_?!” Robin shouted the last word.  He wanted to sprint to Batman and punch him in the face but knew the idea was a ridiculous one.  Just walking was a challenge right now, making running practically impossible.    

            “We just wanted to help but also wanted you to reveal your identity when _you_ were ready.  Actually, I wanted to force it out of you but this extremely intelligent man,” Batman pointed to Alfred, “knew better.”

            There was a long pause and then the Caped Crusader continued softly, “I had to make a choice, kiddo.  I couldn’t do both – save your parents _and_ take out the criminal.”

            “So you sacrificed them,” the boy growled, “in order to capture a bad guy.  Of course you did, that’s what Batman does.  He captures criminals.”  The words were sarcastic and full of grief.

            “I know you don’t want to hear this, Robin, but I chose to save hundreds of people instead of one.  The criminal was about to shoot at the audience and that would have resulted in more than just two deaths that night.”

            “Those _two deaths_ were my _PARENTS_!” the eleven-year-old screamed.  “Did you even think about helping them or were they just an afterthought?!”

            Batman opened his mouth to defend himself again but Robin shook his head.

            “Stop,” he mumbled miserably.  “I can’t do this.  I…jussss forget it.  I’m such an idiot.”

            Raising his arms, and flinching at the spike of pain in his chest, Robin untied his mask.  Removing the black material from across his eyes, the boy balled it up and tossed it toward the trash can that was a few feet away.

            The Caped Crusader glanced at Alfred, whose eyes were full of sympathy.  The butler saw the questions in Batman’s eyes and shook his head.  The boy was done talking about it.

            “I thought I was pretty good – fighting criminals, keeping self hidden – but I’m actually jusss a stupid kid pretending that I can help people,” Robin continued.  “Thought I would be making them proud, trying to keep what happened to them from happening to anybody elssse.  But they wouldn’t be proud; they’d be disappointed.  Ssshould have returned to the circus, shouldn’t have even run away.  Such an _idiot_!” he repeated angrily.

            Wincing the whole time, Richard John Grayson slowly walked over to the medical area and grabbed his tunic.

            “Yes, isss their blood and yes, the name Robin is…important,” he said softly, his voice trembling slightly.  “Thanks for your help but guess I should go now.  The Robin that fights criminals is dead.  Crime Alley won’t have my…his…help anymore, if was even helpful.  Sorry for wasting your time by attempting hide from you.”

            “Robin…” Batman began but was instantly interrupted.

            “Isss Dick Grayson now,” the boy stated, his voice still soft and his eyes staring at the ground.  “I don’t deserve the name ‘Robin’ anymore.  Is that the way out?”

            He was pointing to the tunnel that led to the dirt road and then, fourteen miles later, to Gotham City.  There was no response and the boy looked up at the men expectantly.

            Slowly, and completely unsure if this was the right thing to do, Batman removed his cowl.  Bruce Wayne ran a hand through his sweaty hair and stared into the astonished eyes of Dick Grayson.  Taking the cue, Alfred removed the mask from across his face and smiled compassionately at the boy.

            “But you’re…” Dick whispered in shock.  “And _I_ warned _you_ to leave,” he mumbled, remembering the day that Bruce had been in Crime Alley.

            “You’re not an idiot, Ro…Dick,” Bruce began.  “About six months ago the crime in that section of town began to decrease.  I didn’t understand why but I was grateful that I didn’t have to worry about it as much.  _You_ were the reason it calmed down and you obviously have no idea how much help that was to me.  Usually I had to split my time between villains and Crime Alley but I was able to focus more on capturing villains because of _Robin_ , although I didn’t know it until last week.

            You’re an impressive fighter, especially for not having any formal training.  I’ve met a lot of crime-fighters, kiddo, but you’re the only one I know who has created his own style.  You’re strong, athletic, tricky and speedy.  And you can absorb hits without letting them affect you enough to stop fighting.

            I watched you save a family from a man with a knife, I heard you take out three of Joker’s henchmen then watched you knock down Joker himself in order to release me from a trap.  I saw you fight through the pain of a broken rib in order to pull the trigger of a flame-thrower and then demonstrate incredible strength, staying alert enough to leave while _I_ was fighting that villain.  I saw you in Crime Alley two nights after that injury, unwilling to allow innocent citizens to become innocent victims in a gun battle between two violent gangs.  Then you took down two large men who should have been able to knock you to the ground with one hit.

            I’m assuming that your earlier comment – three guys by self – meant that last night you defeated three men.  Then I heard you try to get Joker to fight you when you were bloody, concussed and barely conscious!  Some people might have agreed to become Joker’s sidekick, like he offered you, just to save their own lives.  You, however, showed no hesitation when refusing his deal.  Instead, you taunted him!”

            “I have often told Master Batman that he could use help, young sir,” Alfred suddenly entered the conversation.  “I never expected him to meet someone quite like you but, from what I have seen and heard, you have the qualities of a hero.”

            “Yeah,” Dick replied sarcastically, “Immma real hero.  Do you know how many people losss their lives on that night I stayed home to _heal_!” he shouted.  “I was selfish and, because of that, streets were full of blood and frightened people the next day.  What kind of _hero_ allows that to happen in a place he’s supposss to be attempting to _PROTECT?_!”

            “One who is injured,” Bruce replied firmly.  “That’s happened to me, a lot, and the guilty feeling isn’t a nice one at all.  However, do you know how many people are alive because you began protecting Crime Alley to the best of your ability?”

            “Let me think,” Dick rolled his eyes.  “The family of four after the ballet, the family of three on the night Batman took out _eight_ thugs, the grocer and the baker.  That’s nine.”

            “In your entire year of crime-fighting, only nine lives have been spared?  I highly doubt that,” Bruce stated.  “Those are only the ones _I’ve_ seen and you know that.”

            “Mos’ of them are mug-and-runners, not killers,” Dick muttered.  “And only reason I count the grocer and baker is ‘cause they stick their necks out for me at leasss once a week and haven’t died yet.”

            “You’ve only been eating once a week, young sir?!” Alfred exclaimed.  In the back of his mind, the butler knew that was impossible but the small piece of information had shocked him.

            Dick sighed.  “No, they leave food out once or twice a week.  Of course I eat more than that!”

            The boy briefly wondered why the obviously intelligent old man had asked that.  Who could survive by eating once a week?!  The thought was dismissed as another question was tossed at him.

            “Where do your other meals come from?”  The growl was from Batman, not Bruce, and he was demanding an answer.

            “Does it really matter?” Dick replied, irritated with the interrogation and ashamed of the details.  “No, because isss in the past.  I’m not going to answer any more questions.  Too embarrassing to admit some of this stuff in front of a _real_ hero and his jusss as amazing butler.  I have to keep a little dignity.  Jusss forget you even met me.  Not worth your time and I’ve managed to stay alive on my own.  Thanks for everything.”

            Turning away from the men, Dick pulled the straps of his leotard over his shoulders and straightened out his tunic.  He had a difficult time getting it on, the pain in his chest was overwhelming, but he managed to complete the task.  Tears began streaming down his face again, not only from the pain but also from the realization that he was a failure.  Everything he had tried to do since his parents’ death – learning to fight, taking on criminals, dealing with pain, hiding – had led him to this moment of realization.  In Dick’s mind, Robin had failed his parents; the main thing he had hoped to avoid doing.

            Bruce and Alfred were speechless, something that rarely happened to both men at the same time.  Dick wanted them to pretend that he didn't exist, to ignore the fact that an eleven-year-old boy was living in a collapsing building and somehow finding enough food to stay alive!  Did he really think they would be able to forget about him so easily?  The men were stunned that after everything the three had been through, Robin still didn’t believe he was “worth it”.

            “Do you still, uh, have my blanket of things?” the boy asked softly, the sentence full of agony and outlined with thick emotion.

            Uncharacteristically startled out of his thoughts, Bruce answered, "It's in the Batmobile.  I'll get it for you."

            Holding up his right hand, Dick shook his head.  “Thansss, but I can do it.”

            Keeping his face turned away, the boy limped over to the vehicle and opened the passenger door.  The bundle was on the floor and he bent over to pick it up.  Fireworks exploded in his mind as his ribs were pushed against each other.  Instead of standing up with a pack of items in his hands, Dick’s legs collapsed, his head hit the seat and he dropped to his back as the bundle of supplies flew over his head.  Darkness overpowered him and he closed his eyes.

            Bruce was by his side in three seconds, checking his pulse and his breathing and searching for blood.  Everything was fine – well, as fine as it could be with all of Dick’s injuries – so the man lifted him up and took him back to a medical table.

            “There are different things that need to be fixed now, Master Bruce.  I have done all I can for him physically.”  The butler saw the ankle and changed his mind, quickly wrapping it securely with Bat-wrap.

            “How, Alfred?  How do we help an eleven-year-old realize that he’s amazing in his own way?  How do we convince him to continue to be Robin?”

            “Is that what you think he should do, sir?”

            “I…shouldn’t he?  He’s good at it.  And I can train him, help him be more prepared against villains.  The only person he hasn’t defeated, since I met him, is Joker!  He takes on men that are twice his size and beats them!”

            “And where do you expect him to go, sir, during the times that he is not training with you or out fighting criminals?  His first home has nearly collapsed, according to you, and his trailer was blown up.”

            “I don’t know!  I could pay for a place…?”

            “You expect an eleven-year-old _child_ to live in a place that you buy for him, sir, when he thinks he’s not even worth your time?!” Alfred stated incredulously.  “And what if someone finds out that he lives there by himself?  A landlord, a neighbor, someone who follows him home.  It would all be reported to the police, Master Bruce, and there goes his freedom.  This young bird, sir, is one that needs and deserves to be free.”

            “Do you happen to have an idea, Alfred?” Bruce asked with his eyebrows raised knowingly.  “It seems like you’ve been thinking about this problem.”

            “It is my humble opinion, sir, that he might agree to the idea of living with _you_.  He was trying to ask you to watch his back earlier.  What better way, Master Bruce, to fulfill that request than by keeping him safe during the day and allowing him to be your partner during the night?”

            “Is Bruce Wayne just supposed to suddenly have a young boy living in his house with no explanation?”

            Alfred had completed the research he had started two nights ago and was grateful he had thought of it.

            “Of course not, sir,” he answered.  “Tell the truth – you found him living alone and in poverty so you decided to take him in as your ward.  Become his legal guardian, Master Bruce.”

            “You really _have_ thought this through,” Bruce murmured.

            “Since the day I discovered his living situation, sir.”

            “My house wasn’t _that_ bad,” came a grumble from below them.  Dick’s eyes were still closed and the words were quiet but accompanied by a tiny smirk.

            “You’re right, young sir,” Alfred commented drily.  “It was worse.”

            “You said you had family!” Bruce exclaimed angrily.  “Family that didn’t exactly take care of you but you lived with them!”

            “After few months of living with rats,” Dick stated as he slowly opened his eyes, “they kinda become family.”

            Growling, Bruce turned and walked away.  The kid hadn’t exactly lied about it but making Batman think that Robin had people to live with when really he didn’t angered the man.

            Alfred also turned away but he was merely going to retrieve another pack of Bat-ice for the boy’s ankle.

            “Master Bruce!” he exclaimed upon turning around.  Bruce whipped his head around and was shocked to see Dick Grayson racing toward the tunnel while wrapping his mask around his eyes.

            “Dick… _Robin_!” Bruce yelled as he pulled on his cowl.  The Batmobile would easily catch up to him so Batman ran to the vehicle and climbed in, growling at the boy’s continuous inability to willingly accept help.  The Batmobile roared to life and flew down the tunnel toward the dirt road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the slurs and missing words are annoying; I had to keep Robin's concussion active while also making him more aware of what was going on around him. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who gave me kudos! :)

** Chapter 12: **

            Dick knew he was quick and, now that both men were looking away, it was time to leave.  His mask had missed the trash can, and was only two feet away from his current position, so there would be no noise when he grabbed it.  Frustrated with his injuries – the jolt of pain that surged down his entire body when he sat up was going to make his escape more difficult – the young hero silently slid off the table and took three quiet steps to his left.

            The world tilted when he bent down to pick up his mask.  Waiting for the dizziness to dissipate, however, wasn’t an option.  Time was a precious commodity so he muffled the gasp of agony as he stood up.  Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, Robin raced away without looking back.  He was almost to the dark tunnel when he heard the surprised voice of the butler.  Quickly wrapping his mask across his eyes, the eleven-year-old disappeared into the darkness.

            Robin’s slightly muddled mind recognized the fact that he wouldn’t be able to escape if he just continued to run.  So, as soon as he entered the tunnel, he searched for a place to hide.  There was a shallow cave in the complete darkness of the wall to his right and the boy knelt down.  He could fit, as long as he squished his body into a small ball and limited his breathing to soft, occasional wheezes.

            The position made his entire body begin throbbing again but there was no way he was going to allow Batman’s butler to force Bruce Wayne to take care of Dick Grayson.  The man was hesitant, Robin had heard it in his voice, and the boy wasn’t going to pressure him into anything.  It _would_ be nice to have real shelter and three good meals a day and better training to fight against villains but not because Batman and his butler pitied him.

            Batman had said that Crime Alley had calmed down slightly since Robin had entered the picture so the boy decided not to retire, not to give up.  The place couldn’t protect itself and, if it gave Batman more time to capture the _real_ bad guys, then Robin was going to do his part.  Finding a place to stay would be more difficult this time, sleeping out in the open would get him killed, but there were abandoned warehouses throughout Crime Alley.  He could sleep in the rafters, like a bat, if any criminals decided to use his hiding place as their headquarters.

            _Like a bat_.

            Robin rolled his eyes in amusement at the thought, although the light-blue circles were outlined with a touch of sadness.  He was a bird, not a bat, and after this escape he probably wouldn’t be given another chance to work with Batman.  The man was undoubtedly angry, frustrated and tired of trying to help him.  Robin recognized that, once again, he was on his own.

            If he had enough space, the boy would have shrugged his shoulders.  He would be fine, as long as he left the real villains to Batman.  Especially Joker; the eleven-year-old never wanted to see that pasty white face or creepy red sneer again.   

            Suddenly the Batmobile roared past him and the young crime-fighter grinned.  He could hear noises from the Batcave, the butler was doing something, so he would have to wait until the man left before unfolding himself from the tiny cave and retrieving his things.

            The Batmobile unexpectedly rumbled past him again and Robin’s eyes widened in both surprise and disappointment.  A tiny flame of hope had persuaded him that Batman might try to find him but the man was already giving up.  The hope disappeared as a twinge of regret flashed through the boy’s eyes.

            Murmurs were coming from the Batcave and then a dark shadow was striding toward the tunnel.  Robin heard the words “hills” and “Manor” and “on foot”.  The minute flame reignited but the boy shoved it away.  If the Caped Crusader found him, he would probably just hand him over to the police.  It was obvious that Batman thought Robin was hiding somewhere in the surrounding area.  Escaping would be harder now but the young hero was determined to find a way.

* * *

            Just as the Batmobile flew out of the camouflaged exit, Batman realized that there was no way Robin would be in plain sight.  The boy was on foot but had the ability to immediately vanish, even when Batman was right behind him.  There were many small but thick bushes along both sides of the road, not to mention the several hills around the property.  Searching the area while in the Batmobile would be a waste of time; the large vehicle wouldn’t be able to traverse the terrain as easily as a running Batman.

            So, the hero turned the Batmobile around and sped back into the tunnel.  Slamming to a stop, he told Alfred his conclusions and the butler agreed.  Batman chose to begin his search by going up the closest hill but, right before he left, Alfred pointed to a crumpled bundle lying on the floor by the Bat-computer.

            “He’ll come back for his things, sir, I’m sure of it.  There is no way he would leave the poster of his parents or his journal.”

            “I agree.  He has to be close, he’s injured and on foot.”

            Not waiting for a reply, Batman turned around and strode toward the tunnel, confident that he would be able to find the boy.  Robin wouldn’t be able to run for long and his concussion would be hindering his ability to think clearly.  The older hero was certain that he would track down the younger one before darkness descended on Wayne Manor.

* * *

**Later that evening:**

            Robin’s entire body was numb and breathing was the main thing he didn’t want to be doing right now.  His lungs couldn’t expand because of the squished position of his body and the quiet wheezing he had decided to use in order to stay hidden had turned into short, painful gasps.

            He had nearly fallen asleep several times, which would have led to tumbling out of his hiding place.  So, he was struggling to keep his eyes open and stay aware of his surroundings.  Fuzzy clouds kept interrupting his thoughts and once in a while the walls of the tunnel would turn into waves.  Throwing up was a constant threat and Robin was leaning toward deciding to turn himself in.  The butler hadn’t left the cave and Batman had been striding in and out of the tunnel all day, making it impossible for the boy to escape without detection.

            “ _WHY HAVEN’T I FOUND HIM?!_ ”

            Batman’s voice thundered into the tunnel and Robin squeezed his eyes shut.  The man sounded furious and the boy felt slightly guilty.

            “HE’S BADLY INJURED, ALONE, SHELTER-LESS AND HAS _NOTHING WITH HIM_!”

            There were some quiet words from the butler – Robin heard “strong” and “clever” – and then the familiar roar of the Batmobile.   A rush of wind blew by the boy as the vehicle flew down the tunnel and out of sight.  The eleven-year-old, per usual, counted to one thousand before beginning to slide himself out of the torturous space to which he had confined himself for almost an entire day.

            The boy leaned against the wall and tried to shake the feeling back into his body.  The sharp needles of a body waking up began pricking his nerves and he closed his eyes against the new pain.  After everything he had been through recently, this ache was the easiest to handle.

            After several minutes, Robin stood up and quietly crept toward the entrance to the Batcave, flattening himself against the wall when he heard movement.  The butler was still there, murmuring to himself as he walked around the area.  Peeking carefully around the bumpy wall, the young crime-fighter watched the man flip some levers on a machine then pick up a feather duster and begin cleaning.

            His bundle was by the biggest machine, the one closest to where the Batmobile had been parked.  But the butler was right there next to it; there was no way Robin could grab it without being seen.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

            A red phone began blinking and beeping loudly.  It was on the opposite side of the cave and Robin held his breath.  Would the butler answer it or ignore it?  Relief rushed through the boy’s body when the man turned away and walked toward the phone.  Now was his chance, probably the only chance he was going to get.

            Alfred picked up the phone and began speaking.  Robin raced around the corner, snatched his full blanket off the ground then turned around and sprinted away.  He was out of sight before Alfred was finished with the phone call and exiting the tunnel twenty seconds later.

            “Good heavens!” Alfred exclaimed when he returned to the Bat-computer.  The bundle of Robin’s things was gone; the boy had been here the whole time!  How, and where, could he have possibly hidden himself so well that the World’s Greatest Detective hadn’t even found him after half a day of searching?!

            The butler walked over to the Bat-communicator receiver and pushed the button.  The Caped Crusader needed to have this information immediately.

* * *

**Commissioner Gordon’s office:**

            “…escaped?!” Batman exclaimed, furious at the news he had just received.  How had a murderer, not even a clever villain, escaped from Arkham so easily?!  This criminal was one that the hero needed to recapture immediately, especially since Dick Grayson had obviously changed his mind about “retiring” Robin.

            “How did you get here so quickly?” the commissioner’s voice pulled Batman out of his thoughts.  “I used the Bat-phone only three minutes ago!”

            “I was already on patrol and decided to stop here, although I had no knowledge of _this_ new development,” Batman growled.  “Tell Warden Crichton to hire better security guards.”

            With that statement, the Caped Crusader turned around and raced out the door.  He had no idea where Robin was and now the man who had murdered The Flying Graysons was free.  If they ran into each other, Batman had no doubt that someone would either be permanently injured or, perhaps, killed.

            Terrifying memories and volatile emotions would rise to the surface if Robin found the murderer and recognized him.  Would the eleven-year-old be able to control himself?  Batman had only known the kid for a week, and he didn’t even really _know_ him, but Robin had asked Batman to leave Joker alive.  That villain, however, had only fought the boy; this criminal had killed Dick Grayson’s parents. 

_Beep. Beep._

            His Bat-communicator went off and Batman snatched it out of his utility belt as he climbed into the Batmobile.

            “It’s gone, sir!” Alfred exclaimed loudly as the Caped Crusader started the vehicle.  “He was here, somewhere, all day and his pack is _gone_!”

            “What…where…how?” Batman stammered out the incomplete questions.  Where could Robin have been hiding and how did he grab his things without Alfred noticing?!  And where would he go now that both of his previous homes were unusable?

            “Sir?”

            Shaking his head, Batman stated, “I’ll find him, he can’t be too far away from the Batcave.  His injuries will slow him down.  On my way, Batman out.”

* * *

            The first time he had been in the Batcave, Batman had said they were twenty-three miles from Crime Alley.  Robin had broken so many of his parents’ rules already; one more wouldn’t matter.  So, he stuck out his thumb as he trudged along the dirt road that led toward Gotham City.

            Ten minutes later the grumbling sound of an old engine approached from the other side of the road.  Robin’s arm was tired and he had dropped it to rest it.  But it immediately flew out when he heard the loud noise and fervently hoped that the driver would decide to stop.

            “Need a ride, kid?” a gravelly voice asked as the car slowed down across the street.  Nodding in relief, Robin approached the car and saw a large, dark-haired man.

            “Where are you going?” he asked wearily.  The guy’s face was slightly blurry but the young hero didn’t really care about the man’s identity.  He had a car and was offering a ride; that was all that mattered.

            “Got a place in Crime Alley,” the man replied.  “Not really a great section of town for a kid, though.”

            “It’s where I live,” Robin stated with a slight grin.

            “Then hop in, there’s plenty of space in the back.”  The man returned the grin and pointed to the back door.

            “Thanksss.”

            Robin heard the slight slur in his voice and his grin changed to a grimace as he turned away.  Hopefully, the man hadn’t noticed it.

            “You okay?” 

            Sighing, the man _had_ heard it, Robin answered, “Yeah, just tired.  Been walking for a while.”

            Nodding in understanding, the man said, “I’ve had concussions, too, kid.  Horrible things.”

            Robin climbed in the car without replying, laid his bundle on the floor by his feet and leaned back against the seat.  The man began driving again and the boy closed his eyes.  Batman wouldn’t find him as long as he was riding low in an old, non-descript, black car.

            Glancing in the rearview mirror, the stranger asked, “Why you wearing a mask, kid?”

            “Got people to hi…hide from,” Robin whispered, hoping the man would let it go.

            “Me too, kid, me too.”

            Fifteen minutes later they passed the gas station where Robin had hidden several nights ago.  Three minutes later the man parked the car in front of the theater and they both climbed out of the vehicle.  Swirls of darkness filled his mind when Robin bent down to retrieve his bundle but he was able to force them away and stand up.

            “My place is just past the theater.  You know where to go from here?” the man asked as he stepped into the light of a street lamp.

            A memory flashed through his mind as Robin stared up at the man and he unintentionally frowned.  A pair of green eyes stared back, suddenly uneasy.

            “What are you staring at, kid?”

            “Huh?  Oh, nothing, sssorry.  Just gotta get my, uh, bearings,” the boy replied, glancing around as if orienting himself.

            His voice was calm but Robin’s insides were churning.  The man had a crooked nose and a light scar running from his forehead to his left ear.  This person was a criminal and a murderer, the boy realized.  Dick Grayson had just stared into the green eyes of his parents’ killer and the only thing that held him back from tearing into the man was the knowledge that it was better to find a criminal’s weakness before attacking.

            “Thanss again for the ride,” the young hero managed to murmur before turning and heading toward the back of the theater.  He tripped on an invisible crack but somehow turned the near fall into a mere stumble.

            “Sure,” the man replied but the kid was already gone.  Shrugging, he walked north and entered the house next to the theater.

            Glaring from the shadows, Robin waited until the door was closed before creeping around the back into the alley.  Quietly, he lowered his bundle and placed it next to the corner of the theater.  Pressing himself against the wall of the small house, he slid along the side until he came to an open window.  The light was on and the man was speaking to somebody.  Robin chose to listen instead of look, for now.

            “Yeah, some kid with a little mask,” came the man’s voice.  “Said he had people to hide from.  Think he had a concussion – slurring and walking funny.”

            “You gave a ride to the ‘boy in the mask’?!” a second voice exclaimed quietly.  “That kid _fights_ crime and now he knows where you live!”

            “He seemed innocent enough.  Looked really tired, too.  He did take a long look at me, though, before leaving,” the first man stated thoughtfully.

            “Tired and a concussion,” the second man muttered.  “Good time to take him out.”

            “What?!  Take out a _kid_?!”

            “You haven’t seen him, Lester!  He’s beaten every member of Rosco’s gang and the only reason I’m here is because I ran away when I saw him take down the most powerful man in the warehouse in less than a minute!”

_Jest_.  Robin remembered the names on the shirts back in Joker’s warehouse at the circus grounds.  Tall, thin, probably easy to knock out.  And the other man, the criminal who had killed The Flying Graysons, was Lester.

            He realized he was slumped against the wall and anybody who glanced his way would notice the position.  Straightening up, Robin slid back toward the alley, picked up his pack of things and turned north.  Maybe part of his old house would still be standing; Batman wouldn’t think to look for him there.  

* * *

            “I drove _slowly_ down the entire road with the Bat-headlights constantly moving from side to side!” Batman exclaimed through the Bat-communicator.

            “He can easily blend into the shadows, sir, as you well know.”

            “I’m going to Crime Alley.  My priority now is to find the man who killed The Flying Graysons before Robin does.  Hack into every street camera you can and keep an eye out for Robin on those and the Bat-cameras.  He can’t have gone far on foot and injured.”

            “I will keep you informed, sir.”

            “Batman out,” the Caped Crusader grumbled as he turned the Batmobile around and headed for Crime Alley.

            “Batcave out,” Alfred whispered to the static emitting from the Bat-communicator receiver.

* * *

**Crime Alley:**

            “Are we really going to search this entire place tonight?!” Lester exclaimed softly, sending a slight glare in the direction of his roommate.  “I’ve had a long day; I’m tired!”

            The two men had casually walked several blocks in search of Robin.  They were half a mile southwest of their house and Lester was ready to give up.

            “He can’t be too far away,” Jest whispered angrily.  “We wouldn’t be out here in the first place if you hadn’t given him a _ride_!”

            “How was I supposed to know?!  I’ve been in _prison_ for the last year!”

            “It’s not my fault you got caught!  Stop complaining and just find the kid!”

            “Fine,” Lester grumbled, “but let’s split up.  I’ll go north, you go south.  If I don’t find him within ten minutes, I’m going to give up for the night.”

            “Fine,” Jest repeated irritably.  “ _I’ll_ take the longer way even though _you_ got us into this mess.”  He briefly glared at the other criminal before turning south and strolling away.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comment parksc1. Sorry that you didn't like it!

** Chapter 13: **

            Robin watched the two men turn away from each other.  He couldn’t hear the words but the fact that they were going in opposite directions was a stroke of luck.  His idea to wait had been discarded, his pack had returned to its place at the back of the theater and he had been following the men as they sauntered around Crime Alley.  Now that Lester knew about him, the man would be extra careful and Robin might not get a chance to take him down.  By going north alone, however, Lester was giving the youngest Flying Grayson the perfect opportunity.

            As the man ambled down the street, Robin flew from shadow to shadow, always close to his target but never noticeable.  Lester turned left at the end of the block, toward the theater, and Robin darted across the street without taking the time to survey the area.

            A stray dog began barking loudly and Robin, berating himself for his carelessness, sped up.  He had to get to the murderer before the guy knew he was there.

            The howling of an angry dog reached Lester’s ears and he turned around.  His eyes widened in both surprise and anger.  The small kid was running toward him, was almost upon him, and Lester instantly realized that the boy knew he was a criminal.

            “I gave you a ride, kid,” he snarled loudly, “so back off or you’ll wish you didn’t get that ride.”

            “Shut up,” Robin grunted as he threw himself into a round-off.  Instead of flying into a back handspring, however, he nearly fell flat on his face.  His ribs refused to stretch into the position and his right ankle gave him almost no momentum.  Whipping around, he sprinted toward the criminal who was now in a defensive stance with his large fists ready to connect with a small body part.

            Robin the crime-fighter was no match for this murdering, prison-hardened criminal.  Dick Grayson the aerialist, however, was being aided by both anger and grief and was ready to avenge his parents.

            Lester swung his right fist and Robin dove under it, tackling the man at his knees.  The criminal brought his left hand up and punched the kid’s right side as he stumbled back and they fell to the ground.  Ignoring the pain that flared up in his chest and the fireworks exploding in his mind, Robin straddled the large torso and began punching the familiar face without stopping.

            “ _WHY_?!” he roared.  “ _WHY DID YOU KILL TWO INNOCENT CIRCUS PERFORMERS?!_ ”

            Robin’s punches lacked their usual power.  There had been no acrobatic trick in the beginning so the extra force he gained from adding one was absent.  His fists were mostly bouncing off the man’s face, not doing much damage.  One of the hits, however, opened up a wound the criminal had recently received in prison.  A thick line of blood appeared over his right eye and began oozing down his cheek.          

            “I…” Lester began but stopped speaking when the coppery taste of the liquid began sliding into his mouth.  Robin wanted an answer, though, so he stopped hitting the man.  Climbing off the strong chest, the boy grabbed Lester’s shirt with both hands and pulled him up to sitting.

            “ _WHY_?” he screamed, both fury and sorrow in the tone.

            Instead of answering, Lester threw his head forward, connecting his forehead with that of the small kid.

            The stitches that Alfred had painstakingly redone immediately tore open and the blood of Dick Grayson mingled with that of his parents’ killer.  Robin saw double, his hands went slack and Lester shoved him away.  The boy’s back hit the ground and he instinctively tucked into a backward roll.

            By the time the young hero stood up, the criminal was marching forward, hands clenched and face twisted in a cruel snarl.  Robin was dizzy, things were going in and out of focus and he was having trouble concentrating.

            “You want to know why?” Lester suddenly stopped and growled.  “Because I had a new toy and wanted to try it out.  It was a brand spanking new weapon, the prettiest one I’ve ever seen, and I was told it could injure hundreds at a time.  What better place to test it than a circus tent, where the test subjects are sitting ducks?!”

            “Why would you want to injure hundreds of people?”  Robin blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to clear both his vision and his head.

            “Because I’m tired of being a ‘henchman’!  I’m tired of sitting in the background and watching the villain have all the fun.  And I’m tired of getting beat up by Batman while the boss escapes!”

            The two began circling, glaring at each other while looking for an opening to attack.  Lester already knew Robin’s vulnerabilities – the concussion, the pained gasp when his fist had connected with some bumpy ribs and now the blood streaming from the small forehead.  Robin was at a disadvantage and he was studying the man’s movements carefully.  Lester was big and therefore, in the young hero’s mind, slow but he had no other obvious weaknesses.   

            “If you’re tired of all that just stop being a criminal!” Robin suddenly yelled.  “Or man up and take out your boss and the other guys!  Two innocent people _fell to their deaths_ because you’re a whiny baby!”

            “I liked you before, kid, when I gave you a ride.  But I’m starting to change my mind so you better turn around and run before I decide to pummel you into the ground.”

            “You’re an idiot, jusss like all the other criminals I’ve ever met,” Robin growled fiercely.  “Are you waiting for an invitation to actually fight back?  ‘Cause I’m okay with you standing there while I beat you to a pulp.”

            “That’s it, kid.  I don’t like attacking people smaller than me, I’m a respectable criminal, but you just became the exception.  Let’s see how good ‘the boy in the mask’ really is when he fights someone two times his size.”

            Robin smirked at that comment.  “You should have talked to your friend before saying that.  I took out three guysss the other night – two of them were bigger than you – while he ran away like a frightened mouse.”

            “You know what?!” Lester shouted.  “I’m _glad_ I killed those stupid circus performers, whoever they were.  You know why?!  Because now I get to beat up a bratty kid that every other criminal has failed to defeat!”

            “ _They were NOT stupid and I’m going to take you down harder than I’ve EVER taken down ANYONE else!_ ”

            “Bring it, kid,” Lester snarled.

            Knowing that his tricks would hurt more than help right now, Robin decided that speed was the best option.  He took three steps forward, leaving him two feet away from his enemy.  Lester, noticing the cloudy eyes and assuming that the kid was almost completely out of it, took the bait. 

            The uppercut was quick and strong and hit only air as Robin lunged sideways then dove into Lester’s ribcage.  Both bodies tumbled to the ground again as four fists wildly swung around, hoping to get in a lucky punch.  Robin’s fist connected hard with Lester’s jaw just as the man’s fist barreled into the boy’s solar plexus.

            Desperately trying to ignore the fire in his torso, Robin rolled away and popped up to his feet.  Lester scrambled to stand up but he was too big and Robin was too fast.  The young crime-fighter raced around to get behind the criminal, scampered up the man’s large back and landed on the muscular shoulders.  Small fists, flying like tiny tornados, began pounding all over Lester’s head.

            The criminal made it to his feet so Robin stopped battering the man’s head and switched his grip.  Flipping himself upside down, the now-crying former aerialist wrapped his strong legs around the thick neck and his strong arms around the muscular thighs.  They were now back to back, Lester standing tall with Robin stretched down his back.

            Several sets of acrobatic muscles contracted and Lester was suddenly gasping for air, his arms flailing helplessly around as he was pulled back into an arch.  Robin could now reach the man’s knees and he shifted his arms down to the joints.  Keeping the pressure on Lester’s neck as tight as possible, the boy squeezed the criminal’s knees as hard as he could.  There were two loud, distinctive popping sounds and Lester screamed in pain.

            Robin released everything and landed on all fours as the criminal toppled over, his head slamming onto the asphalt of the street and his body going limp.  But the boy wasn’t done.  He stood up and started kicking Lester’s body over and over while sobbing uncontrollably.

            “ _STOP_!”

            Robin heard the command but it didn’t register in his young, anguished mind.  He dropped to his knees and began punching the man in the ribs as hard as he could.  Suddenly, he was snatched off the body of the criminal and it was his turn to cry out in pain.

* * *

**Three minutes earlier:**    

_Beep. Beep._

            Batman picked up his Bat-communicator and was interrupted before he even began speaking.

            “Robin found him, sir.”  Alfred’s voice held a tinge of panic and Batman clenched his jaw in trepidation.

            “They’re near the theater, sir, and he’s not holding back,” the butler continued.

            “Which he?” Batman growled, irritated with himself.  Choosing to go south after exiting the Batmobile had been the wrong decision – he was nowhere near the theater.  He turned around and began running north, leaving the motionless body of Jest lying on the sidewalk.

            “I’m going to assume that it’s blood all over both of their faces, sir, so I suppose the statement should have been ‘they’ are not holding back.  It’s a verbal war right now, sir.  They are circling each other and having a snarling contest, from the expressions on their faces.”

            There was a pause and then a gasp.  “ _Please tell me you’re almost there, sir!_ ”

            “I’m a couple of blocks away!  What’s happening?!”

            “Robin’s going to regret what he’s doing, sir, if he isn’t stopped quickly.”

            When he heard those words, Batman shoved the Bat-communicator back into his utility belt and began sprinting.  He was not going to allow that to happen to Robin, the strong yet vulnerable eleven-year-old boy who was fighting crime to honor his parents’ memories.

            There was a scream of agony from somewhere up ahead but Batman couldn’t go any faster than his current speed.  He rounded the corner and froze in shock.  Robin had forced the criminal into a deep arch and had his arms wrapped around the man’s knees.  The Caped Crusader immediately knew the cause of the scream: Robin had just dislocated one or both of the killer’s knees.

            Suddenly Robin was kicking the limp body of his parents’ murderer and Batman could hear the heartbroken sobs.

            “ _STOP!_ ” Batman thundered and wasn’t really surprised when nothing changed.

            The boy was now on his knees and slamming his small fists into the criminal’s ribs over and over.  Batman resumed his sprint and six seconds later he snatched the young crime-fighter away from the seemingly lifeless form of Lester.

            “ _Let me go, LET ME GO!_ ” Robin screamed as he struggled against Batman’s firm grip.

            The older hero had his right arm wrapped across the younger hero’s shoulders and his left arm across the boy’s hips.  Robin’s arms were trapped and Batman was holding him off the ground so he couldn’t get any traction to fight back.

            But that didn’t stop Robin from trying.  He wiggled and squirmed and kicked and finally threw his head back.  His skull connected with Batman’s chin and the man both winced and growled.

            “ENOUGH!” the Caped Crusader commanded loudly and was surprised when Robin instantly stopped struggling.  The boy’s entire body was shaking violently and his sobs had turned into moans of anguish.

            “I’m going to put you down,” Batman stated calmly, “so I can secure the criminal.  You stay right here and don’t do anything stupid.”

            Without waiting for a response, Batman gently placed the boy on his feet then stepped around him.  Pulling out his Bat-cuffs, the Caped Crusader rolled the murderer onto his stomach and attached them to his wrists.  There was a soft ‘thud’ from behind him and Batman quickly turned around.

            Robin was sitting down, knees bent and arms wrapped around his legs.  The boy’s forehead was resting on top of his knees and blood was sliding down his legs and onto the ground.  His breath was coming in short gasps and his body was still trembling.  Batman had no idea what to do or say so he sat down next to Robin and waited.

            It was a full five minutes later before the silence was broken.

            “He…he killed them,” Robin whispered miserably.  “He said…he was… _glad_ …”

            The boy trailed off into a round of quiet sobs that lasted less than thirty seconds.  The Caped Crusader was way out of his league and guessed that it would be better for Robin to take the lead so he didn’t comment.

            “All because of a…of a _toy_.  He called it a _toy_!”

            Robin was mumbling at the ground but Batman could easily hear and understand every word.  The boy lifted his head just long enough to swipe some blood and tears off his face then let it drop again.

            “I wish I had killed him.”

            That was a statement that Batman was definitely _not_ going to let go without rebuttal.

            “No, Robin, you don’t.  You are not a killer and your parents wouldn’t want you to become one.”

            “But they’re…dead,” the grieving child whispered.  “It doesn’t matter…”

            “Yes, kiddo, it does.  The path you chose to follow is not one of revenge.  They would be so proud of you right now.  You’re strong, brave, independent and a fighter.”

            “How do you know they would be proud?  You didn’t even know them.”  The words were full of both sorrow and curiosity.

            “Because I’ve met _you_ , their son, and your actions tell me a lot about them.  When they died, you chose to live for them, to honor their memories.  And because I’ve been in your position.  My parents were murdered in…” Batman paused for a moment before continuing.  “They were shot and I watched them die.  I was eight.  You and I are similar, although you’re much stronger than I was at your age.”

            Robin lifted his head and stared at Batman with wide eyes.

            “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.  “For you,” he clarified, “and for not…”

            Trailing off, the young hero glanced at Lester’s body before turning his liquid-filled eyes back to Batman.

            “For not stopping.”

            The boy dropped his gaze to the ground again and idly watched a few drops of blood splash onto the dirty asphalt.  Batman opened a pocket on his utility belt and pulled out his Bat-wrap.  He put a finger under Robin’s chin and gently lifted it, locking his dark-blue eyes onto the lighter ones of the eleven-year-old child.

            “I understand,” he said as he carefully bandaged the small head for the third time in less than a week.

            “Thanks,” Robin said softly and was suddenly huddled against Batman’s side, hugging him tightly.

            Batman wasn’t used to hugs, and was definitely not a tactile person, but he wrapped his left arm around the small body and lightly squeezed back.

            Robin somehow quickly shifted himself onto the man’s lap and wrapped all four limbs around Batman’s torso.  Resting his forehead against the strong chest, he began quietly crying again.  Two muscular arms hesitantly enveloped the boy and the Caped Crusader patiently waited for his young counterpart to regain control of his emotions.

            Several minutes later Robin’s head was still leaning against Batman’s chest but the small arms were slack and the man couldn’t hear any sounds of grief.  Pulling his head back as far as he could, he was surprised to see the light-blue eyes closed and tear tracks that had already dried on the youthful cheeks.  The Caped Crusader grinned slightly; the kid was asleep.

            He had no idea how to get up without disturbing Robin’s slumber but his legs were cramping and he was also tired.  Two crime-fighters asleep and defenseless in Crime Alley would be like a dying animal waiting to be eaten by circling vultures.

            “Sorry, kiddo,” Batman whispered.  He shifted his arms so they were under instead of around the boy, crossed his legs and pushed himself up to his feet.  Robin stirred but didn’t awaken so the Caped Crusader began walking to the Batmobile with the little bundle safe in his arms.  It was parked precisely seventeen yards away, in front of the theater and behind a plain, black vehicle with no identifying marks.

            Speaking of bundles, Batman decided he needed to at least look for Robin’s pack of things before leaving.  It held obvious clues regarding the boy’s identity and a criminal finding that would be disastrous.  Carefully placing the boy on the passenger seat, Batman took a moment to think.

            A memory flashed through his mind – a small silhouette at the top of the steps that had warned Bruce Wayne to leave Crime Alley then disappeared.  Striding around to the back of the theater, Batman was not surprised to see a well-knotted blanket sitting in the shadows of the wall at the end of the building.  He quickly walked over and picked it up then returned to the Batmobile and placed it in the back seat.

            “Well, partner,” he whispered as he climbed into the driver’s seat, “shall we go to the Batcave and let a very intelligent man patch you up again?”

            “Part…ner?” the boy whispered, the two syllables full of both pain and hope.

            “If you want to, I mean.”

            The Batmobile roared to life and Batman headed for home.

            “Not worth it,” Robin sighed sadly.  “Too much trouble.”

            “Kiddo,” Batman replied softly, “you’re more than worth it.”

* * *

**One week later:**

            Bruce Wayne walked confidently into the courthouse, a slightly nervous Dick Grayson by his side.  Family court was the first door on the left and the judge was already waiting.  The duo made their way up to the bench and Bruce placed the proper paperwork before the judge.  The man immediately signed it and softly congratulated the pair.

            And, just like that, Dick Grayson became the youthful ward of millionaire Bruce Wayne and Robin became the light-hearted partner of the stoic Batman.

            Three days after that, Alfred completed his first Robin-suit: a cleaner, warmer version of the boy’s original uniform including the bold, yellow ‘R’ directly over his heart.

            Two months after that, people were calling them the Dynamic Duo.

            One month after that, when a badly injured Robin escaped from Riddler and managed to leave the villain secured and ready for pickup, people began calling him the Boy Wonder.

            Ten days after that, eleven-year-old Richard John Grayson, acrobat and aerialist turned crime-fighter Robin, finally realized that he was no longer on his own.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


End file.
